XO
by Mirith Griffin
Summary: "Sherlock Holmes had been through twenty sleeping cycles – sixty earth days – before the aliens brought him a mate." Does this mean there will be consent issues? Yep. Alternate universe. Almost literally.
1. Noughts and Crosses

**Chapter One: Noughts and Crosses**

Sherlock Holmes had been through twenty sleeping cycles – sixty earth days – before the aliens brought him a mate.

Umber Triangle, who was responsible for his care and feeding, had told him that the mate was coming. Not that he'd believed it. In his thirty-four years on earth, he'd encountered no one of interest. Various matchmakers of his own species (his brother, his primary contact at the Met, his landlady) had tried unsuccessfully to set him up, so what was the likelihood of the job being completed by sentient columns of thick, golden soup with geometric shapes where the noodles should be?

_Not high_, thought Sherlock. He calculated the odds at roughly 3.6 percent.

Nevertheless, here the man was, having materialized in a heap on the floor of Sherlock's sleeping quarters as if sent down the chimney by an intergalactic Father Christmas. His short hair was blond and brown and silver all at the same time, and his blue eyes were the size of handcuffs, linked together by an upturned nose. Sherlock ran over to peer at him.

"Eurgh," said the mate, staggering to his feet. The fact that he was able to get himself vertical so soon after transit, despite being obviously hung over, indicated that he was in excellent physical condition. He had a fine torso, a case of five-o'clock shadow, and a rather dashing scar indicating a bullet wound to the left shoulder.

_Police? __Criminal? No. Stance, recovery time, and haircut say military; stubble says _ex_-military. Ex-military, spectacularly unlucky, or both._

The imprint on the man's right cheek was consistent with him having rested facedown for several hours on top of his engraved phone. Clearly, at the time of abduction, he had been unconscious. _Alcohol poisoning, _thought Sherlock,_ hence the hangover._ The lack of any signs of struggle – no purpling at the jaw, no finger marks on the neck – suggested the dose was self-administered.

Curiously, Sherlock read the backwards text emblazoned on his future partner's face. "_Harry Watson – from Clara xxx." _

He instantly recognized the brand from the dimensions of the case._ Young man's gadget. Top of the line. Finicky. Not consistent with the man's rough-and-ready appearance. No signs of regular computer use; no callouses on the undersides of the wrists. He's not technologically savvy; he's stubborn, a Luddite. He wouldn't have picked the phone out for himself. No one who knew him well would have chosen it for him. Second-hand, a cast-off. Harry: relative or friend?_

"Mggh," complained the mate. He pawed at his head, as though hoping he could get it to pick up some channel other than the one he was on.

Sherlock felt a wave of irritation sweep over him. It was unfortunate that the aliens were no longer beaming captive entities on board with their clothing and accessories intact, as these were excellent fodder for deductions. This they blamed on him. He'd been beamed aboard directly from the kitchen in Baker Street while holding a tin of ammonium nitrate and a small flask of petrol, and the resulting fireball had singed off his own eyebrows and terrified the welcome party. Ever since then, Ut had given him to understand, all abducted life forms were to be transported on board nude and devoid of belongings. He'd have to deduce whatever he could from the man's own body.

Not that he could see all of it. Although the aliens had stripped the man of his terrestrial effects, they'd coquettishly wrapped his middle in one of their own olive sleep coverings. Sherlock took this as a sign they'd begun researching human customs. He wasn't sure if the mate's wrapping was meant to designate him as a present or to protect his modesty, but whatever the situation, the wrap suited him. He looked attractive. Sherlock was glad that his eyebrows had grown back.

"Merciful fuck," announced the man, who seemed to be regaining the ability to protest in English. "What did I drink last night?"

Sherlock took his mate by the chin – more prominent than his own, it made a good handle – and sniffed him.

"Oi," sputtered the mate, and pushed him off. He was a feisty one. Cautiously, Sherlock checked the capillary patterns in the whites of his eyes. They formed a red filigree as detailed as the whorls of a fingerprint.

"Four Newcastle brown ales," observed Sherlock. "Also two pints of Guinness and a cement mixer."

"The hell?" The mate possessed a rich knowledge of profanity.

"Cement mixer," said Sherlock, annoyed at having to repeat himself. "Bailey's Irish Cream. Lime juice chaser. Produces a curdling effect in the mouth of the recipient. You don't bear the marks of someone who enjoys pain; furthermore, you don't even know the name of what you drank. Conclusion: You didn't order it for yourself. You must have been out with 'friends.'" Sherlock was careful to enunciate the quotation marks.

"How do you know that? That's ama—"

Sherlock glanced again at the man's short, sensible haircut. "No, what's amazing is that well into your thirties, a man like yourself – not intelligent, per se …"

"Hang on …"

"But with a certain amount of the uncommon attribute known as common sense – chooses to consort with weeknight drunkards given to practical jokes bordering on abuse. You submit to these kinds of rituals because you understand that they're a method of testing masculinity and loyalty to the group. There's a shared history there, or you wouldn't put up with it. You're too pugnacious for that." Sherlock scanned his mate's two-toned wrists. "Army? Yes."

"Look, you great git. I don't know who you are…" The mate's eyes, which at first had not been able to focus on anything further away than Sherlock's face, wandered over to the transparent exterior wall of their enclosure. It was displaying magnificent views of the double moonrise over Kepler-22b. The mate's lower jaw swung open on its hinges.

"Sherlock Holmes," replied the man. He considered congratulating the mate on his great luck in being paired with the world's only consulting detective, then decided against it. Although Sherlock was not well acquainted with the practical details of courtship, this seemed the kind of revelation best saved for pillow talk.

"That wasn't a request for an introduc— _SHIT_."

Sherlock looked behind him to see what his terrified future partner was goggling at. It was nothing of consequence – only their bioluminescent captor, going for a walk, or rather, a jiggle. Finding his mate preoccupied, he took his seemingly boneless hand and shook it.

"That's Umber Triangle," he replied. "Ut, for short. Try to keep up."

"Is it _alive_?" the mate wanted to know. He reached for his waist, clearly feeling for a gun. Instead, he encountered his olive sheet. To Sherlock's mind, it brought out the blue in his startled eyes.

"Obviously. It's one of the entities that control the ship. Well, not it, individually. It has very low status, as signified by the large triangle floating in the top of its soup. The higher the status, the more sides to its crowning polygon. I've never seen one of them with a status lower than triangle. I rather think it's my housekeeper. That or my jailer. Why, what did you think it was?"

"I don't know. A giant homemade lava lamp?" The mate seemed torn between staring at Ut, who was undulating towards them in a gelatinous manner, and peering into his sleep covering in the vain hope that he was wearing something else under it.

Sherlock made some shapes with his fingers in Ut's direction. The creature jiggled to a halt, then flashed three olive-colored diamonds in the center of its soup. Other shapes twirled idly in the margins.

"I told it your joke," said Sherlock. "It doesn't understand it. I may not have the right words for 'lava lamp.'"

"You can _talk_ to them?" said the mate.

"A bit," said Sherlock.

"How?"

"I've been picking things up here and there." Sherlock patted his chest and looked at Ut expectantly. "Ut. Who am I?"

Ut flashed a large plum-colored cross. The cross rolled around two-dimensionally in the center of the soup. It looked like a plus sign or an X, depending on which way it was oriented.

Sherlock made a square sign for yes. He then patted his mate on the shoulder, making sure to select the one without the scar. "Good. Now him."

A silver circle appeared next to the plum-colored cross. It was slightly smaller than its companion. Being a circle, it didn't change appearance based on orientation. It was impossible to tell whether it was rolling around in the transparent plane in the center of Ut's gut or not. Sherlock had to admit that it was a fine shape, down-to-earth, suggestive of restraint and permanence.

"That's you," said Sherlock. "Ut's been telling me about you for days now, although frankly, I wasn't always paying attention. I thought it had made you up."

The mate furrowed its brow. "The hell are they implying with the color? Is it an age thing? Tell it I'm 38. Fuck's sake. It's as if they've mistaken me for Murray."

Sherlock frowned. Had another man – possibly an Army colleague, since the mate, whose accent was anything but public school, called him by surname – already staked a claim on _his_ designated partner? He made finger shapes at Ut. Ut had no answer.

"I don't know why you're silver," said Sherlock, moodily. "You're the only silver thing I've seen in their soup so far. All the other words in their vocabulary are umber, olive, or plum." And it was true; unless they were talking about the mate, all the aliens he'd seen so far were decked out in the hues of a Tuscan restaurant.

"Great," groaned the mate, pawing at his head again. "And I'm a _circle_. You said the number of lines in the polygon stand for status. The housekeeper has three lines. Even you have two lines. I have one. What does that make me?"

Sherlock beamed. His mate was capable of pattern recognition. "I'll show you." He made finger shapes in the air. "Ut," he translated. "What is his role on board?"

In the center of Ut's glowing gelatin, the circle and the cross spun closer together. Finally, the cross fit inside the circle. There was a flash of light, and small copies of the circle-cross combination began orbiting the central one.

"There," said Sherlock, satisfied.

"There what?"

Sherlock raised one of his newly restored eyebrows, then tossed his curly head in Ut's direction. This didn't inspire any new epiphanies in his companion. Sherlock sighed. "You're my mate," he said.

The mate cocked his blond-brown-silver head.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in time with the X in the center of Ut's soup. "_Not_ mate as in hanging around the pub on Thursday night, playing darts and losing one's incisors after pinching the waitress. The other kind."

The mate blinked. "No."

"Yes."

"You're not say—"

"It's staggering that I should _have_ to," interrupted Sherlock, "given that Ut has already been eloquent on the matter, but here we are. You're to be my lover. They brought you here so we could have sex."

The mate passed out. It was three Keplerian moonrises before he came to again.


	2. Mate

**Chapter Two: Mate**

John opened his eyes to find himself in bed. At least, it appeared to be a bed. It was definitely not _his_ bed. First of all, John's preferred sleeping surfaces tended towards the flat and the rectangular, whereas this was round with a dip in the middle, like something dreamed up by a med student after an all-night cram session on erythrocytes. Second, the unfamiliar bed had the color and clarity of a Hartley's blackcurrant jelly. In fact, lying on it felt very much like lying on said jelly, if the person cooking it had completely disregarded the instructions about the water content. It was firm but jiggly.

The conclusive proof that the bed was not his was this: there was a man in it. There was often a man in John's bed, but this one wasn't John.

_A bloke_, thought John, panicking. _Except not. _ While obviously male, the person in question was anything but blokish. He was a physical non sequitur: all angles, except for where he wasn't. Where he wasn't, to state it plainly, was his arse, the curve of it putting a major indentation in the jelly. The rest of him was sharp: sharp clavicles, sharp shoulders, sharp hips, all bound up in a bespoke suit and a fine plum shirt that clung to his body like wet silk. His pale features were offset by a crown of dark curls.

Despite his unusual appearance, or perhaps because of it, John would have considered him attractive. You know. If he liked men. Which he most emphatically did not.

"You're up," said the man. His voice had the warmth and silk of coffee, with just a touch of coffee grinder for insistence. He looked as though he were perfectly content to be spending the day in a botched dessert.

John groaned. "Fucking dreams," he said, and rolled over. He had to get back to his unit. Unit as in platoon. _Not_, thought John, _as in dick_.

_Ah._ What he saw when he closed his eyes made more sense. _White wall. Banks of the Helmand. Vegetation high. Hard to see. Machine gun fire. IED. Ground moving. Ground rippling. Ground … jiggling? _

John opened his eyes. The undulating motion under him had been apparently been produced by his companion shifting around on the massive, gelatinous donut. He was edging closer.

_Ohhhhhh, crap_.

"Stop trying to get back to the firefight in the cornfield," said the man. "I know it's where you'd rather be, but it's insulting. Also, you're already awake."

"Uh, no. I'm really not. Can you stay over there?" John was used to other men sneaking up on him, but not for the purposes of snuggling.

"Why?"

"I'm … I'm feeling seasick." It wasn't entirely accurate, but jellysick wasn't a word.

The man's claim that their shared experience represented reality made no sense. John knew perfectly well what sort of thing was likely to greet him during his waking hours, and this wasn't it. He took a moment to review.

_Spartan bedsit? Awake. _

_Shabby curtains? Awake. _

_Aluminum crutch? Awake. _

_Lush vistas of a double-mooned planet? Asleep. _

_Lush, blackcurrant-y bed looking like something King Kong would have for pudding? Asleep. _

_Lush, male bedmate with lush, male arse, its reckless curves posing a sizable threat_ – not, of course, to John's heterosexuality, but _to the laws of physics_?

_Asleep_, decided John_. So very, _very_ asleep._

Try as John might, the cornfield full of shrapnel refused to return. When he opened his eyes, his companion had draped himself over the lip of the bed and was using his new position to stare, upside down, at John's face from about ten inches away. His eyes were pale and slanted, and they seemed to be categorizing everything about John. Possibly at the molecular level.

"Cripes," said John, scuttling backwards. The curvature of the bed sent him tumbling right back into the middle. He stilled. The last thing he wanted was for his own thrashing to send his companion's long, lean form toppling in some unforeseeable direction. As in, on top of him, pinning him bodily to the bed.

Fortunately, the man seemed intent on processing what he'd seen. He perched on the edge of their intended love nest, knees drawn up to his chest so that his legs made a triangle, with his long hands folded into a mini-triangle on top. On this, he placed the inverted triangle of his chin.

"Intergalactic travel," said the man. "Sentient electrical products. Offers of casual sex. And yet you think you're dreaming. Is this the sort of thing you dream about? What do you live on, jelly babies and vindaloo? No, I remember: ethanol. You should lay off it. Causes impotence."

"Hang on, ma—" John paused. Something told him that addressing the other man with a term that could be misconstrued as meaning "sexual partner" wouldn't help matters.

"Oh, for God's sake," snapped the man. "I hardly think I can be expected to hang on longer. I've been very patient during your flirtation with unconsciousness. Now are you going to bed me or not?"

John felt as though his lungs were trying to crawl up out of his throat. "Sorry, _what_?" he said, when he'd finished coughing one of them up.

Sherlock was in no mood to explain. "Thanks to your little holiday, we're hopelessly behind schedule. Ut's been frantic."

Memories from before he'd passed out came flooding back to John. He poked his head up out of the concavity of the bed, emerging from it like a gopher from a hole. Sure enough, there, not eight feet away, was the sentient lava lamp. It flashed a silver circle in greeting.

Any signs of perturbance being evidenced by the home furnishing were, to John's mind, subtle. Signs of his own perturbance weren't. He sprang from the jelly and plastered himself against the transparent wall, beyond which stars were twinkling, the little buggers, in the blackness of space. Changing position made good tactical sense. It also had the advantage of blocking out unwanted skyscapes of planet Kepler-22b, which had been playing mumblety-peg with John's denial.

He tried to remember the other man's name. "Sher … Sherwin? Sherwood?"

"Sherlock."

"We need to get this thing out of here, don't you think?"

"Ut's not bothering anything."

"Ut's bothering _me_. I'm not used to it, and I need to get my bearings. Can you tell it to piss off?"

"Me telling the creature responsible for not throwing us both out the airlock to piss off. Let me think about it. Mmm. No."

"Oh for Chri—" John racked his brains.

"You're charming when you try to think," said Sherlock. "Why don't you come back here and we'll discuss the situation further?" He patted the bed in invitation.

"Yeah, no, not happening. Okay." It was time to interact with the lava lamp itself. Perhaps, unlike Sherlock, it would be reasonable.

"You," said John. "Out." He remembered his manners. "Please."

"You do realize," said Sherlock, "that Ut has no idea what you're saying. Although the 'please' was a nice touch. I don't think it wants to be ordered around by a lower ..."

"Do _not_ finish that sentence," said John. The panic he'd been feeling was being replaced with a resplendent crankiness. It was the kind of crankiness that resulted in people being popped in the jaw. He pointed at Ut, made a walking gesture with two of his fingers, then pointed towards a pale yellow patch in the deep golden wall. This appeared to be the door.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That would make perfect sense," he said, "if you were dealing with a biped. What portion of Ut's anatomy are your fingers supposed to represent?"

As if to support Sherlock's point, the geometric shapes in Ut's gut twirled in disarray. This suggested bafflement.

John took a deep breath. He made a cross with his left thumb and index finger and held it up.

"Him," he said to Ut, tossing his head in Sherlock's direction. "All right? Him."

Ut flashed an umber square in agreement.

"Okay, then," said John. He made a circle with his right thumb and index finger. "Me," he said.

Ut appeared rapt. This shouldn't have been possible for a creature that looked like a novelty lighting product, but it was. Ut held its umber square absolutely motionless in anticipation.

_I can't believe I'm doing this_, thought John. He cleared his throat.

"And this," he said, "is what you want, right? Me and him together." He moved the cross inside the circle. The fluid in Ut's middle immediately turned plum. The umber square began to rotate.

"It's embarrassed," said Sherlock. "Either that or turned on. But yes. It wants us to get on with it."

"Then would you give us a minute?" John asked. He looked at Ut, made an undulating motion with his hand, then looked at the pale patch, hoping it served as the enclosure's exit.

"Technically," said Sherlock, "you just told it to do something highly unsavory to the door. Never mind. It understands."

And Ut did, because it shuffled off towards the patch. When it got there, the patch turned transparent, and Ut squidged through it. The door regained its opacity in the creature's wake.

"Diplomacy," said Sherlock. "Interesting." He began unbuttoning his shirt.

"Er, no," said John. "Stop that." When Sherlock didn't stop, he strode back to the bed and placed his hand around Sherlock's wrist to still it. Sherlock looked up at him. His lower lip was plump, and there was a beauty mark –_ melanocytic nevus_, thought John determinedly – to the right of his Adam's apple.

"Look," said John. "I'm not going to shag you. I just said what I said to get your, um, friend to leave."

"Ah." Sherlock looked strangely downcast. He twiddled an errant lock of hair with a long, pale finger.

"I mean. It's nothing personal. I don't even _know_ you."

"I would think that would be an advantage," said Sherlock. "Why not give it a go now, before we've discovered each other's shortcomings?"

John had a feeling he had already discovered Sherlock's shortcomings. "Don't you think our time would be better spent figuring out how to get out of here?"

"Why? Do you have something to get back to? No, don't answer that. It's clear that you don't."

"Excuse me? What the hell do you know?"

"Everything," sighed Sherlock. "Army doctor formerly stationed somewhere near Gereshk. Bullet to the shoulder, psychosomatic limp that disappears when you're excited, invalided home, drab bedsit, low on cash, loutish friends, latent bisexual. Dull."

"First of all, I'm not bisexual. Second, bisexuality is dull?"

"_Latent_ bisexuality is dull," droned Sherlock.

"Right. And what do you have going for you, exactly? What's your job?"

Sherlock raised his chin in provocation. "Look at me and deduce it. Oh, and do yourself a favor? Don't say 'Prat.' It's tedious. Everyone guesses that. It's not an occupation."

Rising to the challenge, John looked his companion over. His eyes took in the tight suit and the purple shirt that clung to the man's torso as though it were drowning. By any standard, Sherlock was extraordinary-looking.

"Model," guessed John.

"No."

John tried again. "Escort. Sex worker. Highly paid rent boy."

"Don't repeat yourself. No."

John ran a finger down the bridge of the other man's nose. Sherlock flinched, as though completely unused to physical contact.

"Sorry," said John. It was strange that a man who seemed anxious to get into bed would shy away from touch. "Deviated septum. Cocaine addict."

"Ex-cocaine addict. There's none on board. I asked."

"What's the hand sign for cocaine? Is it …" John pictured blow jobs in alleys, but maybe that was meth. He hadn't really dabbled.

"You don't want to know. What else."

"Physically active. Lots of running around."

"Yes."

"Strong arms." John wanted to take off the suit jacket to study them further, but that might give the wrong impression. "Push ups?"

"Fire escapes."

"Ah." John wasn't sure what to make of that. _Peeping Tom? Adulterer?_

Sherlock glared. "Consultant!"

"The fire department doesn't consult..."

"I know," huffed Sherlock. "I work with the _police_."

John hesitated. "Single. That's why you're as thin as you are. Nobody feeding you up."

"Actually, I've gained weight. I've been here two earth months, more or less. Fewer fire escapes, more soup." Sherlock stared into John's eyes.

_Aroused_, thought John. _Pulse visible in carotid artery. Breathing elevated. Pupils dilated. __And that's just me_.

John wondered if the aliens had dosed him with something while he was out. "These things," he said, trying to keep his tone neutral. "Why do they want us to, you know? Are they just really, really bored? Have they not invented crap telly yet?"

"They like me," said Sherlock.

John tried to follow. "They like you, so they kidnap random people to…"

"Not people, plural. One person. You. They take in entities from all over, but you're the only other human being I've seen."

It made no sense. "And they expect us to what? Keep each other company during a long flight?"

Sherlock snorted. "Don't be ridiculous, Doctor…"

"Watson. John."

"John."

"What, then?"

Sherlock got to his feet. Standing, he towered over John. By any objective standard for platonic communication as experienced by Englishmen, he was much too close.

"We're not here for companionship," he said. "They want us to breed."


	3. Sherlock Receives a Reminder

**Chapter Three: Sherlock Receives a Reminder**

Warnings for issues relating to self-harm and sexual consent. Also, really mouthy men.

* * *

"Right, I can _see_ how they might expect me to fuck you," said John, after Ut, their captor/housekeeper hybrid, had squidged out the door. "But how in seven hells do they expect us to breed?"

Sherlock didn't hear the second part of the sentence. The first part had been sufficient to send the deluxe bucket seat in his mental swing set soaring extravagantly into the abyss.

_The mate_, thought Sherlock. _He doesn't consider the Keplerians' plans for our physical union impossible._ _  
_

When one _eliminated_ the impossible, what remained was John, verbally acknowledging that the two of them might fit. True, he may only have been thinking about the problem from the point of view of engineering: red Lego brick snapping onto blue Lego brick, tab A sliding firmly into slot B. However, he seemed to be asserting that in such a situation, he, John, would serve as red Lego brick, and that it was his tab that would be doing the sliding.

That meant that he had to have thought about it.

If he could think about it, he could do it.

Now John was saying something about his past, but Sherlock didn't focus on that, because all that mattered was that he might be losing his virginity to an irascible and highly compelling army doctor before the week was out. It was clear that John didn't think he liked men, but that was unimportant. Sherlock didn't need to be liked.

_He proved unwilling earlier, yes, but perhaps that state of mind's not permanent? I've seen how he looks at me. Perhaps with coaxing, or without an audience, or time to get to know me_…

_Er. No. _Sherlock groaned out loud. Surely the process of John getting to know him would do nothing to facilitate romance. The more John understood him personally, the less he'd want to understand him carnally. He should have treated John nicely from the start and pretended to be mute, like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Then perhaps John would be rogering him with abandon in the blackcurrant bed instead of what he was doing, which was nattering on.

"It was a mess and I never want to go through anything like it again … Sherlock, are you listening to anything I'm saying?"

"No."

John sighed. "You're a cross and I'm a circle. Fine. Well, not fine, exactly, but that's where we are. How do the aliens expect to get little circle/cross combinations out of us? How do they expect us to make more humans?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I don't know, the usual way?"

John placed his hands on his hips. He was still wearing his olive sheet. It was slung around his middle like a sarong, or a long, clingy kilt with the stripes fallen off.

"What am I missing?" he demanded. "Are you a woman?"

"Of course not!"

"Right, and you don't think _I'm_ a woman."

"John, you're putting way more faith in the opacity and thickness of that sheet than the situation merits. I know perfectly well you're male."

John was incredulous. "And you think we're going to knock each other up."

"If you ever stop whingeing on about it and actually _do_ something, yes."

"What yes? There is no 'yes' here! There's only no! Look, I don't know what happened to you in transit. Maybe it addled your brain. In fact, I think it must have done, and now I'm feeling guilty about yelling at you. But you have to understand that men can't get each other pregnant."

"Ah."

"That's what you have to say? _Ah_?" John pressed his thumbs into the inner corners of his eyes, then shook his head vigorously a few times, like a dog trying to clear its ears of water. He was appalled at himself for raising his voice again, but he apparently couldn't help it.

"What do you want me to say?" snapped Sherlock. "In my line of work, it's essential to focus. Anything irrelevant takes up space. When I got here, my brain was already crammed to the rafters with things that _matter_, and then I was presented with the opportunity to learn extraterrestrial botany – that shimmering goo in the pot by the window is a plant, by the way – as well as xenobiology, new theories of time travel, and Keplerian linguistics. Why, in those circumstances, would I insist on clogging up my neural network with trivia that I could easily relearn if the need arose?"

"But it's human reproduction! How would you not _know_ that? Unless… oh." John bit his lip. "You _are_ human, aren't you?"

"Of course I am! What else would I be?"

"Well, excuse me for asking! You with your abnormal height…"

"How," Sherlock inquired, looking down at the top of John's blond-brown-silver head, "are you in _any_ position to comment on what passes for normal height?"

"And your gangly body…"

"Yes, John, by all means. Pretend you only notice where I'm lean, when we both know you spend half your waking moments, rare as they may be, ogling my hindquar—"

"Shut up! And your pale eyes – what the hell color is that supposed to be? Green? Blue? Chrome?"

"What color are my eyes? What color is your _hair_?"

"Right. I still have grounds for suspicion. You can't tell me human beings call their children 'Sherlock.' What sort of name is that?"

"It's _my_ name, thank you. We can't all have the scintillating creativity of the people who came up with 'John.' If that's your real name. Yes, yes, it is. Unimaginative. Prosaic. What kind of parents did _you_ have? I suppose they filled your bottle with beans on toast and swaddled you in cable-knit jumpers."

"Never mind my wardrobe."

"Oh, God, no. NO."

"Sherlock, stop talking."

"You festoon _yourself_ in cable-knit jumpers. Really, John? You succumb willingly?" Sherlock was no stranger to methods of self-harm, but even to him, this seemed extreme. He shivered at the visuals crowding into his head. "Horrible things. Bulky. They hide your body, and you never get laid. Well. Almost never."

John radiated indignation. It stuck up all around him like quills on a hedgehog. "You … I … the fucking cheek! How often do _you_ get laid, exactly, with the mouth you've got on?"

"I hardly see how that's relevant!"

It took several hours for the two of them to calm down. Sherlock spent that time stalking back and forth, and John spent it glaring out the window with arms folded over the place where the front panel of his jumper should be. Eventually, Sherlock came to light, ravenlike, on the edge of the gelatinous sleep nest. _**Our**_ _gelatinous sleep nest_, he thought gloomily_, if only John would be reasonable about it_.

There was nowhere else to sit but the floor, so eventually, John came over and sat beside him. Shelock mentally saluted the Keplerians for their interior design. Everything seemed constructed to pull himself and John together, if only John would give in.

"The Keeblerians…" John hesitated.

"Keplerians," grumbled Sherlock. "They're not a North American biscuit firm, no matter how alien they seem."

"Right, whatever. The Keplerians. How did they decide to … you know, find you a partner?"

"That's what they do. They're an intergalactic dating service. Either that, or a zoo." Sherlock hadn't worked out the details.

"So there are other couples on board."

"_Other_?" Sherlock arched an eyebrow. If anything, his eyebrows had grown back more lushly after the incident with the ammonium nitrate, and he was glad to have someone human to use them on. So far, Ut had proven immune to their effects. "Are you saying we're a couple, doctor?"

John set some time aside to choke on his own spit. "Look," he said, once the fit had passed, "it's hard enough to communicate without you picking apart everything I say. If we're going to get out of here, we need to cooperate. Who else is on this ship?"

"Other couples, as you say. Matched pairs from many planets, I think, plus a few things that have no partners yet. We're next door to something gigantic with tentacles." It reminded Sherlock of one of his former geography tutors. He privately thought of it as Clive. "I went past quite a few of the cells when they were returning me from testing."

"Testing?" John had eyebrows too. He furrowed them.

"You know," replied Sherlock. "Respiratory functions. Heart rate. Neural map."

"Phew," said John. "I was afraid…"

"Plus they were trying to milk the spunk out of me."

"Oh, God." John's face was awash in worry and horror. "God, God. I'm so sorry. Do you want to talk about it? Are you all right?"

"I am talking about it! And of course I'm all right. It's science. I can see why they'd want to know."

John shuddered. "That's very, um, broad-minded of you. I don't think most people would see it that way."

"Not that anything …" Sherlock paused. He was going to end with "came of it," but that sounded vulgar in context. "It didn't do them any good. They were much more effective at discerning my heart rate."

"Are you saying they couldn't…"

"No, they couldn't. And I couldn't either. It's not the sort of thing I normally do."

John winced. "I don't think that's the sort of thing anyone normally does. Not on a spaceship, while under duress. I'm sorry, Sherlock."

_His facial expressions_, thought Sherlock. _They're astonishing. All the emotions are right there on the surface, as obvious as the umber square twirling on a plum background when Ut's giving embarrassed assent. _

Sherlock didn't have a history of synesthesia, but he could practically _taste_ John's emotions. _Bitterness of anger, salt of … what, lust? Yes. He's trying to hide it, but obvious lust. Sourness. That's sorrow. Sorrow for what? For me? _On top of everything was a sweetness that Sherlock couldn't quite place. The combination was intoxicating.

"So they stopped, eventually," said John, looking to Sherlock for reassurance. "They gave up."

Sherlock made a tent with his hands. "I wouldn't say they gave up."

"What do you mean?"

"I … I may have suggested to them that it was impossible for them to get anything out of me unless I had a mate."

"You _told_ them to bring me here?"

"Not you, specifically."

"Sherlock, that's … you can't do that! You can't tell them to abduct other people!"

"What were you doing on earth that was so important? You were bored and depressed! You spent your days limping around your flat with psychosomatic leg pain and making your bed with military corners! Do you think I can't read that on you?"

"That's not the point!"

They sat together in strained silence.

"Look. When I told them to get me a mate, I didn't know they'd _do_ it. If I hadn't found one, how were they going to find one for me? I thought I was sending them on a wild goose chase and that they'd leave me alone and let me get back to my botanical studies." Sherlock began chattering away as if paid by word per minute. "The plants here, John. Fascinating. You've no idea. In some respects, they're like the creatures: geometric shapes moving against a gelatinous background, everything squidging around, but in plants, the shapes move slowly, almost impossible to see, and … ah." Sherlock frowned. "You don't care about that."

"Nope."

Sherlock invited other people's fury. He was used to it. He was also used to their envy and disgust. But there was something about disappointment, and John's in particular, that was exceedingly unpleasant. At the moment, the acrid taste of John's anger was being intensified by, yes, that sweetness. For whatever reason, John had thought better of him, had expected more, and Sherlock hadn't delivered. It felt horrible. It was like being butterflied open with a blade rubbed down with demerara sugar.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked. "Do you want me to ask them to send you …" Home wasn't the right word, not with John living alone in a drab bedsit. "Back? I can tell them you're not female, that it won't work."

"And let them grab some woman off the street and chuck her in here instead? No. I don't know what woman could handle you, actually. Or this." John gestured towards the window almost as an afterthought, as though the primary issue was not being six hundred light-years away from earth, but being six inches away from Sherlock.

"And you can?" It seemed unlikely.

"Hard to say, but I'm already here. Seems a shame to involve someone else now."

_Ah. Strong moral principle._ It was one of the many things that made John what he was. Attractive to the point of annoyance.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't they, um, test me? Or rather … shit." John's face fell. "They did, didn't they? When I was out cold. Shit. Shit. _Shit_."

"What? No. Of course not."

"What do you mean, of course not?" John worried his tongue with his teeth.

"I told them not to. There was no point. We're the same. They'd already done everything on me."

"And that _worked_?"

"Yes. I bundled you into the bed and guarded you for three days. I wouldn't let them get near you except to rub you down with a food bath. Transcutaneous administration of nutrients. Extraordinary. Oh, and I let Ut hose you down a bit for cleanliness's sake, but that's all. Other than that, I paced around you in circles. They chalked it up as a courtship display and didn't press the issue."

"Oh. That was … kind. Really. Thank you."

If John's disappointment had been discomfiting, it was nothing compared to his quiet gratitude. Sherlock flapped one hand like a child dismissing a smoke ring. "I'm not _kind_," he insisted. "I just didn't see the point of replicating the results."

John snorted. "Right. And here I thought replicating results was a basic component of the scientific method."

_So much for that_, thought Sherlock. He'd discounted John's medical training. He wasn't used to being around anyone with an understanding of science, however cursory. Certainly Anderson knew nothing about it, and the Met had hired him as an expert in forensics.

It was at this moment that Ut squidged back in the door.

Mimicking the triangle at the top of Ut's soup, John made a three-pointed finger shape in greeting. "Ah," he said. "You've brought friends."

Sherlock shook his head.

"Not friends," he said, grimly. "Reinforcements."


	4. Home

**Chapter Four: Home**

If you're looking for fic without consent issues, I hope you'll enjoy ... er, something else.

* * *

As six Keplerian newcomers surged forward, Ut hung back. Ut was speechless. All the geometric shapes had fled from its middle. These were now twirling nervously on the perimeter of its body in an apologetic ballet.

Whereas John found their housekeeper almost cuddly, the reinforcements were not. They towered over him and even over Sherlock, who, sixty seconds ago, had been John's new benchmark for tall. While Ut got from place to place by squidging, these creatures had mastered a kind of legless gallop. They rushed into the room in a tsunami of deep, emphatic yellows: saffron, mustard, marigold. Compared with the sleek, powerful newcomers, Ut was beginning to look like a bag of reconstituted apple juice.

John couldn't tell what they were saying, but the communicative shapes in the reinforcements' middles were at least twice the size of anything John had seen on Ut. Like print in all caps, this looked like shouting. Not that John had much experience with print in all caps. It had always been beyond him to find the caps lock key.

"Right," said John, as the reinforcements formed a menacing ring around himself and Sherlock, who was behind him. It was just as well. If John had been behind, he wouldn't have been able to see anything but Sherlock's shoulder blades. "What the hell is going on?"

"Someone made a promise" was the muttered reply. "They're here to collect."

John was fond of anchoring his hands to his hips in times of trouble. It was soothing. It was more soothing on days when he was wearing a pocket holster with a gun in it, but he'd take what he could get.

"Sherlock, what exactly did you tell them we'd do?"

"Me? _I_ didn't tell them anything. You're the one who decided to inform Ut of our afternoon schedule."

John groaned, remembering his cross/circle pantomime. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but like many such ideas, it was looking like a massive cock-up now. "I only told him that to get him to leave!"

"Yes, so you said. Not the pronoun I'd use for something lacking external genitalia, but given that we're outflanked and outnumbered, let's skip the semantics, shall we? Ut left. Leaving, you'll notice, doesn't preclude the possibility of return."

_Shit_, thought John. He squared his shoulders.

"Look," he said. "I need you to tell me everything you can about who he's got with him and what they want."

John didn't think Sherlock's characteristic baritone – _don't think of dark caramel, Watson; chin up, steady on_ – had half an octave to spare. It did.

"You _know_ what they want."

_Ah. Yes. _

What the Keplerians wanted was for the two of them to impregnate each other during a burst of torrid public sex. This John found unreasonable. It didn't matter that the audience wasn't human, and that therefore, chances of word getting back to John's grotty part of North London were diddly over squiddly. Neither did it matter that his prospective partner boasted razor-sharp wit, triumphant cheekbones, and a stunning posterior, or that these were mathematically apportioned in such a way as to make Euclid weep with joy. The idea of sleeping with Sherlock, let alone somehow magically getting him up the duff, was a big ball of "Does not compute."

"Right. Skip that. Who's with him."

"Societal function is expressed by the crowning polygon," said Sherlock, narrowing his almond eyes. He really was gorgeous, in an offbeat way. He was an avalanche of pointy things, pins and needles and femurs and hips, all emanating from the opulent pincushion that was his arse. "Olive hexagon is the top ranking member of the group. Soldier caste. An officer."

John could handle this. "What's his status? Does he outrank me?"

"How on earth should I know?" John could actually _feel_ Sherlock looking him up and down, giving special attention to his armpits. "What are you, a lieutenant?"

John folded his arms over his chest, shielding his crevices from the eyes of the impudent. "_Captain_."

"I underestimated you," said Sherlock. John felt a surge of gratification at this. "Still, no idea. Oh, and whatever you do, don't salute. It doesn't mean what you think."

"Understood. Who are the others?"

"The plum pentagons are scientists."

_Tests._ _Probing. Intrusiveness of all kinds_. John shook the images off. "And the umber square?"

"That? That's a member of the priest caste. I don't know what that's doing here. It's got no reas—"

"Short answer?"

"Voyeur."

While this was not good news, John was astonished by Sherlock's ability to synthesize information on the fly.

_How does he know all this? _asked the right hemisphere of his brain. _ He's amazing_. _He's extraordinary. He's fantastic. _This was countered by a howl from the left hemisphere, which seemed to think that Sherlock was an ocean of daftness in a sharp suit.

"Are you taking the piss?" John wanted to know. "You're very clever, I can see that, but how much of this is just guesswork?" _Or worse_, John added privately. He wondered to what degree the contents of Sherlock's mental cereal box had settled during shipping.

"_Not_ guesswork," said Sherlock, clicking the final K in a fit of pique. "Analysis. Heuristics. Synthesis."

"Seventy percent?"

"Thirty."

John flinched as something grasped his arm. He looked down to find that one that one of the plum pentagons had reached out a blobby appendage, which it seemed to have manufactured on the spot, and was curiously stroking his bare arm with it. The sensation was like being rubbed down with a rubber octopus on the Piccadilly Line: unexpected, and not at all pleasant.

John felt air currents eddying around him as Sherlock's arm lashed out at the intruder. Before he could slap the offending appendage away, John jerked backwards, extricating his arm and jostling Sherlock into a less aggressive position.

"Stand down," ordered John, before remembering to translate that into civilian. "For God's sake, stop trying to hit them. Tell them to give us a minute."

"You already told them to give us a minute," intoned Sherlock. The "look where that got us" on the end was silent but obvious.

"Yes, well, _you_ do it. You're the one who speaks the language. I've used up my stock of lewd gestures for the day." John hadn't, not by a long shot, but unleashing them full force was unlikely to improve the situation. "Tell them we're having, I don't know, a little domestic."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "We _are _having a little domestic," he said. He stepped out from behind John and made a series of gestures at Olive Hexagon. Olive Hexagon – "_Oh," for short_, John supposed – flashed a series of large, forbidding shapes across its soldierly middle.

"All right," said Sherlock, turning to face John. The two of them huddled within a ring of agitated Keplerians. "It says we have the length of time that it takes for something with tentacles to fully digest a sort of gigantic Keplerian moonrat. Possibly five minutes."

"Look, what if we don't do this? What if we say it was all a misunderstanding?"

"I don't think that's advisable."

"Why not?"

"Keplerians don't lie, John. Look at them. They're literally transparent."

"So?"

"So," echoed Sherlock, "they frown on saying one thing and doing another."

"What do you mean, 'frown on?'"

"You're liable to get thrown out the airlock."

"You're not serious."

"I am. There was a rather excitable alien made up of magnesium and chalk in the testing lab. It told the Keplerians it needed to do an errand for its mother. Upon further investigation, the Keplerians determined that its species lacked parents."

"So they…"

"They threw it out the bay window by the communal breeding pool."

John didn't want to know what a communal breeding pool was. "They _killed_ it?"

"I don't think it was killed, no. It didn't seem to require oxygen. But it did float away."

John thought about floating away. "I'd rather we didn't."

"Agreed."

"What does Keplerian breeding look like?" Too late, John identified his own question as overly optimistic. No doubt Sherlock was identifying it as idiotic. "Never mind. There's no way you'd kno—"

"One or more participants. Each presses a side against another, or in case of masturbation, one presses a side against itself. There's undulation at the point of contact."

"Crap. I really did tell Ut to do something unsavory to the door. How do you know all this? Don't tell me. You deduced it."

"Hardly. They put on a presentation for me in the lab. They thought it would excite me." Sherlock frowned. "It didn't."

"Shit."

"Particularly the bit with the engineering crew. It looked like an explosion at a custard factory, except, well. Not so opaque."

"Uh," said John. "Good to know. What else?"

"When there are partners, Keplerian anatomy obviates the need for a single 'top' or 'bottom.' Conservation of matter. Sticking something into a partner necessarily creates an indentation in oneself, which is then filled by another Keplerian. The gelatinous wall breaks down at each point of contact, and for a time, the creatures meld. As long as connection is established, geometric shapes are exchanged. Never the crowning polygon, but the others are fair game."

"And if I refuse to do something, er, like this with you, it will be seen as…"

"Given what you told Ut earlier? An act of war, I think. Of course, if you do have sex with me, it may turn out to be an act of war anyway. I'm still learning the language, but I believe you promised we'd breed. You've already made it clear to me that's not going to happen." Sherlock looked slightly mopey at the thought.

A terrible idea occurred to John.

"How do I know you're not making things up? You could just be willfully misinterpreting everything they say to get a leg over." John's voice slipped into an imitation of his fellow captive's posh tones. "'John, there's going to be an intergalactic incident of horrendous proportions if you and I don't lie down and create new humans via simultaneous fellatio this instant.' How do I know I can trust you?"

"You don't," said Sherlock, with a quick glance towards Oh. Oh's middle was awash in large, shouty geometric shapes again. "Time's up."

Sherlock was right. John didn't know that he could trust him. And yet, when he checked in with his own oxytocin levels, which had been hiding under a firestorm of adrenaline, he found that he did.

Perhaps it was because Sherlock was extravagantly blunt. The man had no filter. He didn't have a transparent pane in his stomach showing everything he was thinking, but he might as well have. Also, he'd tried to protect John on at least two occasions, one of which was verifiable because it had occurred when John was awake. Either way, John had a certain amount of confidence in him. He could only hope that Sherlock felt the same, because otherwise, this was going to be incredibly awkward.

Hell. It might be incredibly awkward anyway.

"C'mere," said John, beckoning Sherlock closer.

"What?" said Sherlock, bending his head down. "We don't have to whisper. It's not as if they know what we're ..."

And then he stopped talking, because the pressure of John's mouth was interfering with the movement of his lips.

The kiss was supposed to be a quick snog for show. A good faith effort to buy time. A demonstration that John wasn't lying and that nobody needed to go out the airlock, thank you very much.

It wasn't.

It was electric.

As heat prickled up the backs of his thighs, John realized that it was the first time he'd actually touched Sherlock for reasons other than diagnosis or restraint. Yes, he'd run a finger along the bridge of Sherlock's upturned nose, and there'd been a quick jostle when Sherlock wanted to smack the Keplerian scientist for poking John with a gelatinous protuberance, but they'd never so much as shaken hands. They'd skipped that stage. And now it was too late for that, because Sherlock's eyes were wide and he was making a little _Oh_ of surprise and his lips were soft and inexperienced. It felt intimate. It felt _dangerous_.

_Oh fucking hell. _

John closed his eyes and pressed his tongue into Sherlock's mouth. In the split second before he'd done it, he'd imagined it might be warm and welcoming. Instead, it was warm and hesitant. At the moment, for reasons John didn't want to analyze, warm and hesitant was to warm and welcoming what hundred-year-old brandy was to zinfandel in a box.

_Christ. Has he done this before? He's not acting like he has. Must have done, though. The body on him? Yeah. Unless he's chased everyone away with his arrogance and his massive intellect. Still. Nobody makes it to the age of thirty without so much as a quick liplock, do they?_

John doubted that even the Pope had pulled it off. And yet, here was Sherlock, yielding and uncertain, drumming his fingers nervously against John's hip.

_Good. He smells so good. How does anyone spend two months on a spaceship and still smell good? It's not cologne. It must be him, his body, his scent._

Sherlock smelled of the planet they'd left behind – like pine forests and sea air and the damp earth after the rain. Lost in the scent of home, John wrapped his arms around the man's neck. He pressed against him, trying to maximize contact as they kissed. Sherlock pressed back.

_Oh God. He's hard. _

And he was, magnificently so, but John couldn't hold that against him, because so was he.

John opened his eyes. Sherlock's were already open. John had the feeling he'd been watching the whole time, trying to take everything in.


	5. Kiss

**Chapter Five: Kiss**

_Oh, _thought Sherlock, as his mate swooped in for the kill. _Oh_.

Actually, he couldn't tell if he'd thought it or said it. He hoped it was the former. Any acknowledgement of John taking him – and here Sherlock's brain got stuck on the possibilities afforded by that particular subject-verb-object combination – by surprise would be a sign of weakness.

Of course, fixating on the idea of one's roommate shagging one blind when he'd already said he wouldn't wasn't a sign of cool intellectual detachment either.

Sherlock's assessment of the situation? _Bugger._

Sherlock had expected to investigate John, thank you very much. He hadn't for one minute expected John to investigate him. He'd seen the man as a sort of biped version of the violin: something he'd been given, something of his own, a companion for him to examine and investigate and master. He told the violin to play, and it did. In its absence, he ought to be able to command John to provide him with sex and find him similarly responsive. The aliens had set the overall goal, but Sherlock would set the terms, and John, the ordinary person in the relationship, would accept them. That was his role as mate.

John, who was making Sherlock's trousers feel poorly constructed, seemed to have a different understanding of his role. Any Sherlockian expectations that John would be simply lying back and thinking of earth were now flying out the back of the spaceship on a vapor trail.

Perplexed, Sherlock looked to his data.

_Subject: Mate. Er, John. Kissing. Mmmn._

_Body temperature: 37.9_ _°C__. Note: Reading is extrapolated from surface temperature of lips. His lips. Which are on me. Ungh._

_Height: Short. Tells his friends he's 1.7 meters. Isn't. His lack of shoes makes him even shorter by comparison. This should not be sexy. Is._

_Plans for future research: Find out if he's portable. Preferably when asleep._

_Body type: Solid. Powerful. Compact. Wriggly. Ah. Yes. Like that. Good._

_Clothing: Sheet provided by alien overlords. Cons: unimaginative. Pros: revealing. See previous._

_Scent: Tea. How does he still smell like tea after the bender he was on? Ah. Lapsang souchong. Not like other teas. Dried over a pinewood fire. Smoke particles, pine resins. Tend to bond with the keratin in human hair. Drinks a lot of it._

_Addendum: Possibly bathes in it._

_Kissing style: Guerilla attack on my mouth. Drew me in under false pretenses, then grabbed me by the cheekbones and had at it._

_Respiratory rate (his): Increased._

_Respiratory rate (mine): Verging on tachypnea. Unf._

_Heart rate (his): Elevated._

_Heart rate (mine): Catastrophic._

_Eyes (his): Closing_. _Why? Fascinating. He's shutting down his visual system to devote – mm? – more cerebral processing power to other senses. Touch, for example. Which is what he's doing to me. With his – ah – tongue. Very insistent. He's licking a path along the seam of my lips. Does he want them apart? Why does he want them apart? Mmpf. They're parting. Are they meant to do that? Focus._

Heightening one sense by shutting another one down was a brilliant tactic. Holmes used it himself. The preceding summer, he'd had to chase a news crew away from the quadruple homicide at the Holborn Viaduct Pret A Manger, simply because the garish spectacle created by their wardrobe was affecting his hearing. _Cerise jacket? Noisy. Chartreuse tie? Cacophonous_. Managing his visual environment helped him pay closer attention to the auditory one, even if all he was listening to was the voice in his head. He liked that voice. It was generally the only one in the vicinity that was right.

_It's an observant person's trick_, thought Sherlock. John hadn't seemed particularly observant, but that was when his mouth was over there. _How do you sup—_

Sherlock's question would have to wait. John had chosen that moment to enter him with his tongue.

It was odd, no longer being alone in his own ponderous, pondering head. He'd never had a lodger before. True, the kiss had been unexpected, but he'd heroically clung to the shreds of his coherence. That was before John had breached him. There he was, warm and human and inescapable, making a home for himself in Sherlock's mouth. Under the onslaught of sensation, all of Sherlock's mental functions shut down for ten seconds.

Here was irrefutable proof: kissing caused brain death.

Fortunately, John was determined to effect a miraculous recovery through resuscitative osculation. Or, as Sherlock thought before his boarding school vocabulary came back online, _Oh, God, he's going to snog the hell out of me until I snap out of it_.

Sherlock knew a high-quality cross-examination when he saw one. John's tongue was grilling him, compelling his body to give up its secrets. Was that a moan? Sherlock hadn't realized he could make that sound, not without fracturing something first. John had coaxed it out of him, just as he'd coaxed his nipples into stiffening against the inside of his shirt. And now things were dissolving into utter chaos. Other parts of Sherlock were cheekily following the example of his nipples, purely because John was kissing him. There was some kind of anatomical coup going on, and John had orchestrated it.

_Stupid_, thought Sherlock, once thinking was an option. _How could I have been so stupid?_

"All right?" asked John, surfacing for air.

"Yes," Sherlock lied. He was not all right. He was desperately turned on. How was John able to make him this hard without him willing it? What Sherlock was currently packing between his legs would put out a Cyclops' eye.

_Oh_. John was hard too. That was fine, then. Sherlock put a hand behind John's neck so that he couldn't get away and kissed him. John gave a surprised _umph_ and then settled in for the duration, wrapping one arm around Sherlock's waist.

Sherlock let his eyelids droop. John had the right idea: it really did intensify touch. It was blissful. Sherlock had done something like it during concerts – not kissing, but shutting his eyes, surrendering himself to senses beyond the visual. The shimmer and glide of a Bach violin concerto? Necessary. The sight of knobby elbows in evening wear, sawing away to create that music? Unnecessary. John was sensible to make the distinction.

And yet, with his eyes shut, he couldn't see John. He opened them again. Being this close to someone – _Unngh, he's _in_ me, can't get closer than that_ – played havoc on his binocular vision. There were two of John. Sherlock was fine with that. The more of John, the merrier.

_Touch. Feel. My mouth opening to him. My body responding to him. Mouth becomes softer, groin becomes harder. How is he drawing this out of me?_

Sherlock could feel his brain race, his pulse soar. The call of one neuron to another, of blood cells singing each to each. His body had become an orchestra. When had this happened? He didn't even remember getting the sheet music. It was like being able to play Mahler's Fourth simply because someone had waved a baton at you.

"Is this how people usually do it?" Sherlock demanded. He was aware of their Keplerian audience standing around them in a ring, but only dimly. Anything that wasn't John was now mood lighting, as far as he was concerned.

John grinned. "How do you mean?"

Sherlock looked down at where John was still grasping him by the waist. "Kissing. With, er, more than just lips."

John was looking at him oddly. "Uh, yeah. It's not universal, maybe, but it's not rare either. Do you …" He licked his lips. "Do you want to go again? Best to make a good impression."

It wasn't clear who John was trying to impress, Sherlock or the Keplerians. Sherlock's vote was already in the bag. "Yes."

Sherlock inclined his head, offering John his mouth. John kissed him again. This time he put a hand in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock wouldn't have thought he wanted a hand there, but then, he hadn't realized he wanted a hand on his arse, either, and John had also seen to that. John was using Sherlock's posterior as a kind of shelf. His hand rested there peacefully, like a skull on a mantelpiece. It seemed like it was designed to fit there.

Sherlock didn't care what John said: it was highly unlikely that the average person kissed with all four limbs and their hips. That had to be a personal invention of John's. The man was grinding against him now.

"Why do you close your eyes?" It was best to be certain. "It's not …"

"Not what?" said John, sounding mildly exasperated now. Perhaps it wasn't wise of Sherlock to keep depriving him of his mouth.

"Do you not like how I look?"

John giggled. This was a new development. Did all of Her Majesty's soldiers giggle? _Doubtful_, decided Sherlock.

"You look fine," said John. "You know. For a bloke. Might as well close my eyes. I can't see anything when you're two inches from my face."

"That was never two inches."

"Right," said John. "Get back here."

How had Sherlock so gravely underestimated the man? He knew more about Sherlock's body than Sherlock did, and he'd only made its acquaintance this week. He deserved the Nobel Prize in Kissing. Sherlock felt as though he'd taken home a German patent clerk and not realized until he had him on the sofa that the man was Einstein.

There was a sudden flurry of activity from the Keplerians. The flashing of their bellies created a sort of strobe effect.

"What's going on?" John wanted to know.

"It's Ut," said Sherlock. "He's … _it's_ dissolved in a puddle on the floor." Oh, this wasn't good. John's tongue had only been in Sherlock's mouth for four minutes, and he was already picking up the man's imprecise habits of speech. Sherlock blamed osmosis.

John let go of Sherlock. "What's wrong?" He pushed his way through a field of gelatinous bodies towards Ut. "How can we help?"

This was what Sherlock got for dating a doctor. "I don't know, put him…" _Blast it._ "_It _in the refrigerator? It'll be fine, John."

No one could look more dubious than John. It was a function of the wrinkles in his forehead. "How's it going to be fine? We need to do something. He's sinking into the carpet."

"I've seen this before. It's overheated."

That was one way of putting it. Several weeks ago, Ut and Sherlock had been ambulating down a walkway – a squidgeway, really – overlooking part of what Sherlock was now thinking of as the Keplerian Zoo. Ut had paused to watch two Midorian fire snakes. They were shagging like weasels. Ut's middle had turned plum, and it had promptly turned into a pile of goo. Several hexagon M.P.s had come to escort Sherlock back to his room. Ut had been fine the following day, but it had never taken Sherlock back to the reptile area.

Sherlock's reverie was cut short as the head plum pentagon made a move towards John. It was the same creature that had groped John's arm before. Sherlock now recognized it as the principal investigator in charge of examining him in the lab. The one John had disapproved of for trying to milk him.

Running solely on instinct, Sherlock strode across the room and interposed himself in between John and the scientist, who was waving a blobby and hastily manufactured arm.

"What's up with him?" John asked. Good old John, forever seeing male reproductive organs where there were none to be had. "Can you translate?"

Sherlock wanted to say, "It says, 'Take Sherlock to bed.'"

He wanted to say, "It says, 'Let Sherlock touch you everywhere. Let him put his hands on your pulse points to see where the blood courses strongest. Let him determine where your skin is roughest and where it's softest. Let him investigate the scar on your shoulder and taste the backs of your knees. Let him examine your cuticles and put his hands between your thighs."

He said none of those things.

"It's congratulating you," said Sherlock. It was best to camouflage the longing that would otherwise be coming off him in waves. An eye roll might do the trick.

"Congratulating me for what?"

"For your impending fatherhood. In its professional opinion, you've knocked me up."

John laughed out loud. Sherlock thought the humor value in the situation was limited. John had been touching him in a delightful manner before, and now he wasn't.

Seeing Sherlock's frown, John sobered up. "It worked, then. They bought it?"

"Bought what?"

"They think that was sex."

"Yes." Sherlock thought the Keplerians had a point. He and John had penetrated each other. What did it matter what organs were used? Tongues, like cocks, were firm and wet. Their hips had been moving in synchronization; their bits had been pressed into each other's bellies and thighs. How was that not sex? If that was foreplay, actual sex was going to finish him off.

"So," said John, "that was enough." The words were dressed as a statement, but Sherlock recognized them as a question.

No. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough. He'd been willing to let John have him; _would_ have let John have him, had it not been for the distraction.

He was still willing.

"Yes," said Sherlock, glad that John could not read what he was thinking through a pane of glass in his stomach. "For now."

* * *

Author's Note: Huge thanks to **An Artificial Aspidistra**, whose eagle eyes spotted a continuity problem in earlier chapters. Despite what I originally said in chapter 4, John _had_ touched Sherlock before kissing him. I should have known John wouldn't keep his hands off Sherlock that long. Well spotted, A3. I think the problem is now fixed.

Thanks to everyone for reviewing. I write back to everyone with an account, but if you've done it while logged on as a guest, please know how much I appreciate it!


	6. Touch

**Chapter Six: Touch**

Promises: Rated M for men going at it.

* * *

"John. _John_. Wake up. We've been outed by pandas."

The man spread out on the blackcurrant jelly bed opened a single, bleary eye. With some effort, he focused it upon his sleek, brooding flatmate, who was stalking back and forth across the floor of their enclosure like a caged panther in a Spencer Hart suit.

"The hell?"

"_Pandas_," emphasized Sherlock, as though the path to comprehension was paved with shouting. "The Keplerians know I'm not pregnant. I've been scanned by Plum Duff."

John opened his other eye at this. Now he had stereoscopic vision with which to take in the sight of his companion pacing like a madman._ Er. No. _John mentally corrected his mistake. "Like" was for similes, not synonyms. John was fairly certain that you could take any recipe calling for grade-A madman, replace it with Sherlock, and be assured of culinary triumph.

Sherlock's lunacy was fast becoming a problem. John had always gravitated towards partners who were smart and crazy, and Sherlock was a textbook example of both. True, he wasn't a woman, but he was utterly brilliant and madder than monkeys. _Six monkeys_, John thought. _All hopped up on mescaline and in charge of a fire hose._ _Oh, God. If it weren't for the lack of tits, he'd be exactly my type._

"Look," said the ship's token lunaphiliac, sounding much more reasonable than he felt. "Slow down. Start at the beginning."

"I did," snapped Sherlock. "You insisted on sleeping through my explanation. How much sleep does one man require?"

_Sleeping? Eating? Breathing? Dull._ Maslow's hierarchy of needs meant nothing to the gangly maniac.

"If that man is me?" asked John. "Some. Can you sit down for one minute? You're making me dizzy."

Sherlock was indeed making John something, but dizzy wasn't it. His pacing was terribly distracting. For one thing, the frenetic motion set off John's orientation response, and for another, every time Sherlock pivoted away, his backside, clad in close-fitting English wool, was displayed to breathtaking effect. The fact that the man's trousers were capable of confining such bounty was nothing short of miraculous.

Sherlock gave a short bellow of frustration, then bounced up and down on the edge of the bed, sending ripples through its jelly. The resulting wave tickled John's thighs.

"Pandas! The Keplerians got hold of two of them. They're in a cell two doors down. They've been at it like rabbits."

"So?" It was unusual for Sherlock to be interested in salacious gossip.

"How are you not understanding this? One of the pandas is with child."

Still half asleep, John goggled at this development. Clearly, the situation on board the H.M.S. Keebler was more complex than he'd originally surmised.

"For God's sake," said Sherlock, clearly at the end of his rope. "It's with _panda_. Confound it, John. You know what I mean."

"Good for it," said John, relieved. "We'll have to send it a bouquet. What does any of that have to do with us?"

"You know how your recent snogfest succeeded in convincing Plum Duff that saliva was a vector for mammalian DNA exchange? That's finished. Kaput. The game is up."

"Saliva _is_ a vector for mammalian DNA exchange," John pointed out. "Just not one that leads to reproduction. And how the hell was that _my_ recent snogfest? Honestly. One man kissing. What's that, a Zen koan? Sherlock, you liked it. Maybe you didn't want to do it at first, but you got into it. I distinctly remember you trying to harvest my adenoids with your tongue."

Bits of Sherlock's face changed color. The resulting shade harmonized nicely with the plum in his shirt.

"John, _please_. Now is not the time to indulge your overactive and no doubt exclusively heterosexual libido. I need you to focus. The pandas are the only other mammals on board. The fact that they've been able to conceive without swapping saliva calls our own 'breeding program' into question."

If Sherlock's speech was meant to turn John's thoughts to matters of strategy, it was failing. How was John supposed to think when this stunning creature was blushing at something he'd said? The rational part of John's brain wondered if Sherlock could change color on purpose, like the embattled octopus in a David Attenborough program.

John's libido wrestled his rationality to the mat and sat on it.

_Shit_. _Why does he have to push all my buttons? _John put to one side the fact that the area Sherlock was chiefly affecting was less button than lever. _Bloke or not, I want him. I want to hold him down and fuck him. What exactly are they putting in the soup around here?_

"John. For the last time, _pay attention_."

"I am! Panda: pregnant. Us: not. You: upset. When did they notice?"

"Last night. The panda's become big and round. I haven't. It's aroused the Keplerians' suspicions."

"'Big and round?' What does that prove? All pandas are big and round. There's one body type for pandas, and that's it. Similarly, there's one body type for you, and it's…" John censored "luscious fuck toy" and went with "skinny bastard."

"Thank you, John. That's enchanting. To think that people say romance is dead."

"Sod this. They're being completely unreasonable. When did we kiss, two days ago? Tell them…" John couldn't believe he was advocating for this strategy. "Tell them it's too early for you to show. Tell them you're not very far along with, er, the pregnancy."

Sherlock's tourmaline eyes rolled like marbles on a hardwood floor. "What exactly is the point of digging us in deeper than we already are? You know how they react to being misled. I'd just as soon not go down in history as 'Airlock Holmes,' if it's all the same to you. Besides, it's too late for trickery. They've already scanned me."

John sat bolt upright. "What? When?"

"Just now, when you were conked out on the bed. You were busy chewing the edge of it in your sleep and muttering, 'This caf has gone downhill.' I chose not to interrupt."

John felt a tightness beginning in the back of his jaw. "Sherlock. I don't want anyone scanning you. I don't want anyone _touching_ you. If somebody's in here and they want to do something to you, you wake me up. Tell them it's a mate thing."

_It _is_ a mate thing_, John's brain helpfully supplied. John checked his brain for dissent, but for once, all parts of it were in agreement. John told his brain to shut up.

"Your territoriality is _charming_," said Sherlock in his burnt sugar drawl, "but it changes nothing. The Keplerians figured out the underlying principles of mammalian genetics late last night – again, using the pandas. They now have proof that successful breeding results in the mate's DNA being deposited inside the body of the recipient. They scanned me for signs of yours, and they didn't find any. Whatever saliva you deposited in my mouth had already been broken down by my enzymes."

"Then I'll deposit more," said John. _Ohhh, dear._ The comment was meant to sound pragmatic, but all it sounded was filthy.

There was a brief eye tussle culminating in ocular sex.

"It's not enough," said Sherlock. "They already watched us kiss. It didn't 'take.' They want more from us." He tossed his head back in challenge. _Was_ it a challenge? It seemed to be intended as one, but John's body was having trouble deciding whether Sherlock was engaged in a display of haughtiness or submissively baring his throat.

At this point, Plum Duff, with characteristic bad timing, galloped in the door. John recognized the lead scientist's plum pentagon and the slight frill around its gelatinous base. He was holding some kind of container in his gooey makeshift fist.

"Sperm sample," said John. "That what he wants, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Yours or mine?"

"Obvious. I'm the pale one, the bony one, the one not getting any sleep. I'm the one it suspects of being infertile. Mine."

"Tell him he'll get it, but he needs to leave first."

"John, we've been over this. I haven't…"

John took a deep breath. "I know you haven't, but I have. And I'll help."

* * *

Once Plum Duff had squidged off, promising to return, John sprang into action.

"Lie down on the bed," he said, doing his best to sound brisk and businesslike. Sherlock raised a confrontational eyebrow, but he did as he was told, flopping onto his back in the bed's central indentation.

"How are you going to toss me off from over there?" Sherlock wanted to know. "I suppose you're telekinetic?" He peered over the edge of the gelatinous sleep nest to where John was now pacing by the long, transparent outer wall of their room. They'd swapped places. It was like the Changing of the Guard.

"Ha bloody ha," said John. "I'm not tossing you off. I'm talking you through it."

"Why talk?" asked Sherlock. "I imagine touch would have a higher likelihood of success."

_Yeah_, thought John. _Why? _

"Because it's coercive, that's why. It's what they want us to do, and I'm not in the habit of having sex at someone else's say-so."

"I find that difficult to believe. You've had girlfriends. Are you telling me none of them have ever initiated sex?"

"That's different," said John. "I knew them. I don't know the Keplerians, and I don't know you."

"Where did I get this scar?" Sherlock pointed at the back of his neck.

John sighed. "Fell off a pony when you were five."

It had been a busy couple of days since the kiss. The two of them had talked constantly. In John's defense, he'd been trying to distract himself from a monumental case of blue balls. The effort wasn't successful. Of course it wasn't. There was nobody for him to talk to but a brilliant, beautiful nutter with soft lips.

"Who's my arch enemy?"

"Your brother."

"What's my middle name?"

"Sherrinford."

"Excellent, John. Perhaps you could tell me the middle name of that woman you recently picked up at the Holly Bush in Hampstead, the one you proceeded to fornicate with in a shrub on the Heath. No? How about her _first_ name?"

"Stop trying to talk me into this! I don't…"

"'Like men,'" quoted Sherlock, speaking along with him. "Yes, yes. You only like one. Convenient use of the plural, John."

"Look, do you want to argue, or do you want to get through this before Plum Whosit comes back? Take off your jacket. You'll get … stuff on it if you don't."

"'Stuff,'" repeated Sherlock. "How illuminating." He removed his jacket and tossed it at John. John caught it in one hand and threw it onto the nearest lamppost-cum-coatrack, which is to say, a stick with a container of bioluminescent plants on top.

"Unbutton your shirt."

"Of course," said Sherlock. "Wouldn't want perfectly good tailoring besmirched by Stuff."

John's ability to think of a clever response was severely curtailed by the sight of Sherlock's pale skin emerging from its purple cage. His body was lightly muscled and even more lightly furred. There was a dusting of hair at sternum height, then a dark line of it extending from his navel into his trousers. Sherlock parted the shirt enough to be practical, but not enough to show off his nipples. John felt a bit sorry at that.

Unbidden, Sherlock pried off one shoe, then kicked off the other. _Must have been terrible at Simon Says_, thought John.

"Get your trousers down. You don't have to take them all the way off."

John had meant to acclimate himself before telling Sherlock to remove his pants, but Sherlock had plans of his own. He pulled down trousers and pants at one go, easing them gingerly over his opulent arse and half-hard cock. Both waistbands came to rest around his thighs.

_Um. He's excited. Why's he excited? Is he an exhibitionist? Does he like following orders? Or is he just looking forward to getting off?_

"You must have done this before," said John, trying to keep his tone conversational.

"Masturbate or orgasm?"

John coughed. "The second one."

"Not intentionally, no. While asleep, sometimes. But not often."

"Right. Well, put your hand on yourself."

"How?"

"You know. Wrap a hand around it."

Sherlock complied.

"Ohhh," said John. Like a container of bioluminescent plants, the lightbulb above his head was turning on. "Is that how you do it?"

"I've told you, I don't do it at all. I tried it once, perhaps twice. It's never worked."

"OK. Your hand is sort of … upside-down. Try it with the thumb on top, instead of on bottom, then stroke yourself. The underside of the shaft is most sensitive, so that's where you want your fingers rubbing. You don't want all the fingers on the back and the thumb on the front. You won't get enough pressure that way."

Sherlock rearranged his grip. If John had thought he was gorgeous before, it was nothing compared to how he looked with his knob out. He was magnificent.

"Don't I need some kind of lubricant?"

"Er, no, not necessarily. You're already leaking. The pre-come will provide, ah, slickness. Now make a circle with your index finger and thumb and see if you can't work the foreskin back and forth over the head with it."

Sherlock gasped.

"Good?" asked John.

"Yes," came the unsteady reply.

"OK. Now think about …"

John had Sherlock's rapt attention.

"Er, somebody you like. Doing … something you want." John expected that Sherlock would close his eyes at this. He didn't. Lips parted, he continued to stare directly at John. The only difference was that he pumped his fist faster.

"Um. You might want to slow down."

"Why?"

"You're going at it pretty hard. You don't want to chafe. Go gently at first."

Sherlock put this advice into practice.

"Feel better?"

"Much."

"All right. Tease yourself. That way, you can ramp up the tension without making yourself sore."

"How?"

"I don't know. Maybe touch your balls a bit."

Sherlock cocked his head. "Is that how _you_ do it?" he demanded.

"Never mind how I do it! Just … keep stroking the shaft and try touching your balls with your other hand."

"Ungh."

"Having trouble? No wonder. Your legs are too close together. Spread them more so you can get your hand in there."

There was a limit to how far apart Sherlock could get his legs, given that he was currently bound up in his own trousers, but he managed to buy himself a couple of inches.

"Oh God." Sherlock's pupils were enormous, their perfect roundness now mimicked by his open mouth. John thought of the O in a London Underground sign.

"OK. Get a rhythm going. You're too erratic. Your body needs to be able to anticipate what's coming next. How does it feel?"

"Peculiar. I can't…"

"Yes, you can. Relax into it."

"It's … too much. Or not enough. There's something wrong with …"

"Nothing's wrong. You're just not used to it. Try rubbing a little harder. Let the flat of your index finger catch against the ridge every time you pull up."

"Guh. It's … I don't …" Sherlock looked vaguely panicked. His testicles were drawn up snug against his body, and he was covered with a fine sheen of sweat.

"You're almost there."

"This … I never … I can't ..."

John walked over to the bed. Concerned, he peered down at his writhing would-be lover. He was stuck in a holding pattern, desperate, unable to climax.

"Are you all right? Do you want to stop?"

"No," said Sherlock, and John realized he was answering both questions at once.

John bent to check Sherlock's feverish grip. "Here, now. Just put your hand …"

_Oh, shit. _

John had only meant to guide Sherlock's hand a bit, make it exert a little more pressure. He hadn't meant to touch his cock. But he was touching it now, and it was hard and hot and thrumming against his fingers. Sherlock's eyes flew wide open.

"John. Oh, God. Unh. You're making me — _John_."

John had never seen anyone more transfigured by pleasure. It wasn't that Sherlock was experiencing orgasm: he was possessed by it, and he bucked and cried out as it rode him. Unable to control himself, he shuddered and shook and pulsed his wetness into John's hand. His ecstatic thrashing sent tremors through the jelly and knocked John into the bed. They lay there a moment, pressed up against each other, panting and flushed.

_Beautiful_, thought John. _His face. The way he looked when it hit him. Beautiful._

They were both too stunned to speak.

"Damn it," said Sherlock, when he could move his lips again. "We forgot the cup."


	7. In Which John and Sherlock Go for a Soak

**Chapter Seven: In Which John and Sherlock Go for a Soak**

"Um," said John, with what Sherlock had come to think of as his characteristic eloquence. He was clearly used to letting his jumpers speak for him.

"Quite," said Sherlock. "Um" pretty much summed it up.

The two of them had just been removed from their enclosure and marched down to a new location by two stone-faced hexagon MPs. Sherlock was not sure how humans generally celebrated one partner bringing another to orgasm for the first time, but he was fairly certain this wasn't it.

"So," said John, conversationally. "Communal breeding pool?"

"Cleansing pool, I should think."

The vista laid out before them was something out of Hieronymous Bosch, if Bosch had skipped hell and gone straight for orgies and post-orgiastic tidying. Creatures of every description were immersed, either partially or completely, in what appeared to be a dark yellow broth. The broth was thick with mysterious, golden flakes that shimmered like small, dense pieces of mica.

John somehow added new furrows to a forehead which, by any reasonable standard, was impossibly furrowed to begin with. He stared at the denizens of the pool. Almost all of them seemed dazed and out of it. The branches of underwater trees undulated limply in currents created by the movements of other life forms. Exhausted bicycles lay tangled in a knot. Spent pieces of kelp drifted through the slow-moving auras of Tesla coils, who lackadaisically extended purple tendrils to each other.

"Are they sick?" John asked, already performing triage in his head.

Honestly. It was as if the man thought he was still on payroll of the Royal Army Medical Corps. Sherlock gave a sigh of protest.

"Hardly." Really, this should have been John's department.

"What then? Oh. They're …" John started to laugh. "They're knackered. That's it, isn't it? They're completely shagged out."

Sherlock was still not used to anyone saying "shag" to him. He was much more familiar with "piss off."

They watched as two pandas – possibly their neighbors, although with pandas, it was hard to tell – waddled into the pool, attended by a Keplerian crowned with an olive triangle. The pandas were so relaxed and spherical they practically rolled down the ramp. A cloud of mica rushed up to them, obscuring the parts of them that were ensconced in broth.

"So. That's what passes for a bath around here?"

"When all parties are conscious? Apparently." The improvised scrubbing Ut had given John some days ago had been another matter.

"Hum," said John. "No time like the present." He made to take off his sheet, then stopped. "What's 'thank you' in Keplerian?"

Sherlock looked at John as though he, like several of the pool's visitors, had horns erupting from the top of his head.

"Why on earth" – which was precisely where they weren't, but exposure to John had boosted Sherlock's use of colloquialisms – "would you want to know that?"

John gave a quick nod to the hexagon MPs who were standing sentinel over them.

"They brought us here so we could get clean. I could use a wash. We ought to say it."

"But there's no reason to say it!" The events unfolding after Sherlock's first orgasm with a partner were a bit of a sore spot. Plum Duff had burst in on the newly intimate couple while Sherlock was still trying to regain feeling in his toes, so there had been no time for any cuddling that John might have wanted to perpetrate upon his person. Sherlock didn't know if John had wanted to supply any cuddling, but he strongly felt that the opportunity should have been provided. Despite John's vigorous protests, aftercare, such as it was, consisted of the Keplerian scientist scooping up Sherlock's genetic material in the forgotten cup and squidging off with it. Soon after, the MPs had shown up.

John set his jaw. "Are you going to teach me to say it correctly, or are you going to let me improvise? Because God knows what I'll say if I do."

"Blackmail? That's beneath you, John."

"Says the bloke who told the Keplerians to bring me six hundred light-years from home in order to wank him off."

John had a point.

"Fine. Try a hexagon to start. You want to address them by rank."

"Give me two fingers."

Sherlock scanned John for signs of lunacy. "Is there any reason you want that particular salute?"

"I can't make a hexagon outline with just my hands. Here, give." John picked up Sherlock's hand and made widely-spaced horns with it. Then he stepped back and admired his work.

"Nice." John giggled. "You look like a roadie for Metallica." Sherlock would have interrogated him as to the meaning of this were he not absorbed by the sight of John making a corresponding pair of horns with his own dominant hand. This he perched upside down on top of Sherlock's outstretched index and pinkie fingers. The resulting shape was a passable hexagon.

One of the MPs jiggled companionably in John's direction. It addressed him with a silver circle in the center of its gelatinous midriff, then placed Sherlock's plum cross next to it as an afterthought. The other MP gave no sign. Clearly, it was that MP's day to be Bad Cop.

"OK, what's next?" said John.

"Circles."

"How many?"

"Five. Preferably all in a row. It means something like 'grateful.' The 'I am' is, of course, implicit."

"How the hell are we going to do five circles simultaneously?" John looked down at Sherlock's toes, apparently trying to judge the degree to which they were prehensile.

"This was your idea, John. You work it out."

As soon as the words left his mouth, Sherlock knew he would regret them.

"Excuse us a moment," John announced to the MPs, neither of which had the foggiest idea what he was going on about. He turned to Sherlock. "Right, do this." He picked up one of Sherlock's hands and made a circle with the thumb and forefinger. "Hold that up perpendicular to your ear."

"This is ridiculous," said Sherlock.

"It doesn't hurt to be courteous. Where were you raised, a barn?" John moved Sherlock's hand into position himself.

"Eton."

"If tuition's meant to include basic etiquette, see if you can get your money back." John quickly fashioned Sherlock's other hand into a circle and placed it next to Sherlock's other ear. Now Sherlock was making what had to be the intergalactic symbol for Dumbo the Elephant.

Sherlock was not amused. "I cannot _wait_ to see what you do to make me forgive you for this."

John chuckled darkly. The sound travelled the length of Sherlock's spine. "I'll bet."

John scurried behind Sherlock and made two circles with his own hands, which he placed next to the circles Sherlock was already making. There were now four circles, two on each side of Sherlock's disgruntled head.

"Now what?"

"Open your mouth."

"You've _got_ to be joking."

"Nope. Do that 'O' thing you do with your lips."

Well. This was a turn up.

Sherlock shifted his voice to its "Lava wouldn't melt in my mouth" gear. It was a sound fit to wobble the knees of royalty. He'd practiced it on Mycroft.

"When, exactly, have you seen me do an 'O' thing with my lips?"

John was not royalty. He was utterly unfazed.

"When you made that deduction about Ut. The one about how he fancies the pants off Oh, and the sexual frustration is doing his head in. Plus you had some kind of idea for what to do with bits of Ut left in the carpet from when he passed out. You made your mouth into a perfect circle."

"Ah."

Sherlock didn't bother to point out that the object of Ut's affections didn't wear pants. He was just relieved that John hadn't seen this particular face under other circumstances.

"Plus, when…"

_Damn it._

"John, shut up."

"Not unless you open your mouth. Or do two circles, a flat line, and two more circles mean something especially brilliant?"

"They don't."

"All right then."

Mentally kicking himself and quite possibly John, Sherlock opened his mouth.

The more affable of the two MPs goggled, where goggling meant freezing all his twirling shapes for a moment. Then it flashed an umber square in the middle of its gut. The square rotated for emphasis.

"It says 'you're welcome,'" said Sherlock, lowering his hands. "Actually, it says, 'yes,' but idiomatically, it's the same thing. It's acknowledging your gratitude."

"Our gratitude," corrected John, who was still behind him. "Three-fifths of the circles were yours."

There was a loud splash. Before Sherlock had even had a chance to look, John had doffed his sheet and slipped seal-like into the pool.

Sherlock rushed over to the side of the pool to peer at his mate, but it was too late. Ersatz mica chunks were glittering around him, obscuring everything.

John faced Sherlock with a grin. "Looking for something?" The pool's liquid came up to his armpits. His scar shone glossily in the light.

"Why, are you?" was Sherlock's schoolboy retort. John was definitely looking him over. Sherlock considering stripping off, but decided his clothes could use a bit of a wash. He had hastily fastened them again after the MPs had arrived, and they absolutely reeked of John-induced pleasure. Already barefoot, he hopped into the pool.

He was immediately inundated with shining, crystalline flakes. Whatever they were, they were excellent at removing grime. Sherlock let them work on his clothes a bit, then set to work taking them off. He lay his shirt on the side of the pool, then his trousers, then his pants. John pretended not to stare.

At this point, a good bath – a proper bath, with water – would have revealed a great deal. Unfortunately, the pool's liquid, clingy and golden like vegetable oil, was thick with shimmering, opaque bits. These obscured other bits that would have been of great scientific interest. Bits belonging to Sherlock's short, attractive flatmate, whom Sherlock had yet to get off.

Even if he and John couldn't see each other due to the damnably opaque cleansing particles, it was the first time they'd been naked together.

"Um," said Sherlock, borrowing a line from John. It was all he could do to keep from bellowing with frustration at his own inexperience. It had never seemed like a problem before. In fact, it had seemed like a strength.

"I could," he continued. "If you wanted. I could do. What you did. To me."

"I don't know if I … no, no, don't look like that. It's just … it's a public place. And what exactly are they planning to do with our DNA? I mean, if you did toss me off – and I'm not saying we're about to do that – would they sweep up the leavings and make clones out of them? You might be all right with that, but I'm really not. Also …"

Sherlock didn't feel like hearing one more time about how little John liked men. He picked his shirt up off the side of the pool and held it out to his mate. "Notice anything?"

John actually sniffed it. And he said _Sherlock_ was the one with no sense of personal boundaries.

"It's clean. I mean, it's a bit damp, but it's clean."

"Precisely. I assume I don't have to remind you what it was stained with."

"Er, no. No, you don't." Sherlock had ejaculated with more force than either of them had been expecting. Although the sides of the shirt had been parted at the time, it had borne some of the onslaught.

"Well, the mica _ate_ it. Look around. This isn't a harvesting facility. It's a sort of post-coital launderette. That's why the pool attendants aren't scientists. Look. No crowning pentagons. Everyone's got either a crowning hexagon, indicating 'soldier,' or a crowning triangle, indicating 'housekeeper' or 'jailer' or whatever Ut is. This place is staffed with Keplerians like Ut."

John's face relaxed at the mention of Ut. He liked the creature. In fact, John liked just about everybody. This was not altogether flattering to Sherlock.

"So you're saying the pool isn't a research lab. It's … comfortable. Cozy."

Sherlock marveled. Everything John said was made of wool and tea. Either that or bullets.

"In a manner of speaking. So if you wanted …"

John's upper lip twitched. "It's still a public place."

In the corner, a panda was thoughtfully chewing on its mate's ear. It occurred to Sherlock that he might one day find it acceptable to be chewed in this manner. By John. Not by pandas.

"No one can see you," said Sherlock. "I can't see you, and I'm right in front of you."

While the non-Newtonian fluid and its perfidious sparkly bits had the shorter man cloaked to the armpits, Sherlock's tall, angular body was on display to the bottom of the sixth rib. This would have seemed like a vast disadvantage but for the fact that John kept furtively glancing at Sherlock's nipples, erect in the cool air. At least, Sherlock assumed that this blatant ogling was John's version of furtiveness.

"Er. Yeah, then. If you don't mind."

Sherlock didn't mind.

* * *

A/N: First off, I want to thank the resplendent **youcantsaymylastname **for making a ground-breaking photo manip for chapter six. Never before have pandas and a lava lamp appeared in the same picture. Fanfiction won't let me post the URL here, but you can find a link to this marvel on my profile page. Five circles, can't.

Second, I want to thank tumblr queen and all around stellar human being **afrogeekgoddess** for making a podfic for "Heat Wave." I'm delighted with your work and your friendship, sweetie. There's a link to this on my profile page too.

Third, I want to apologize for the slowness of this update. According to the physician's assistant, I have either a sprained wrist or De Quervain's tenosynovitis. I vote for the latter because it sounds pretty. Either way, I'm supposed to type less. Writing sex scenes increases blood flow and reduces inflammation, so expect one next chapter.


	8. Wrecked

**Chapter Eight: Wrecked**

Rated M for men going at it. Also, references to drugs and guys playing a bit rough. Although I doubt John is actually playing.

* * *

It is a little-known fact that some people look good naked, dripping wet, and with an arm pinned behind their back.

Sherlock Holmes was not one of those people.

Forced up against the side of the pool, his chest pressed to the wall, he looked, and well, felt, absolutely devastating. Possibly even better than usual, what with the heaving and the gasping and the application of an evasive maneuver indistinguishable from shimmying.

These distractions were not a strategic advantage for John. Unfortunately for Sherlock, the army doctor's strategic advantages were already numerous.

"You … said … you _wanted …_" Sherlock spat out, glaring over his bare shoulder at his short, bristling roommate, whose left arm was slung casually against his throat.

"_That_? Not that specifically, no," said the bristly one. "Let's go over some ground rules, shall we?"

Sherlock tended to respond to John's requests with either "Boring" or "Let's." He croaked out the latter. John correctly diagnosed this as not a display of enthusiasm, but rather the upshot of having exactly one syllable's worth of breath at his disposal. He let go, and his stubborn captive slumped forward, forehead knocking against the deck with a muffled thump.

"First of all," said John, "when I invite you to toss me off, I'm expecting something a little more low-key. It would help if you cut back on that walk you do. That stalking thing."

"Why?" demanded Sherlock, his voice somewhat stifled by his face-down posture. "Not attractive?"

"Never mind if it's attractive!" It was, in fact, ridiculously hot, but very predatory and not well suited to a first date. Not when the other participant's life menu had included seven courses of taxpayer-funded combat training and a dollop of post-traumatic stress disorder for pudding.

John tried not to dwell on how his life had come to such a pass that a quick grope in an alien cleansing pool now constituted a date. _Was_ it a date? Really, it was just his first attempt at doing something consensual with Sherlock, rather than coerced. Unless you counted the fact that they were probably both on mind-altering Keplerian sex drugs, in which case, who knew.

"When you bear down on me like that," John pointed out, "it gets my adrenaline going, and my fight response kicks in." Captain Watson had long ago given up on pretending that there was any flight component to his fight-or-flight repertoire.

"And? What's wrong with that?"

"I might hurt you." This was an attempt to spare a civilian's feelings. The operative word was "will."

"Again, what's … ow!"

"I'm just saying," said John, evenly, "that I want to go slowly at first. This brings me to my next point. When I ask you to stop stalking me – "

Here, John gave an involuntary shiver of arousal at the sense memory of Sherlock advancing on him, jaw set, gaze determined. It's one thing to agree to a quick hand job, but another to look into another man's eyes as he looms over you and register that he's six inches taller, three times crazier, and hellbent on wrecking you with sensual pleasure. This is especially overwhelming when you know that he has almost no practical knowledge of how to accomplish this. The recollection made John's stomach do flip-flops for at least two different reasons. Only one of them was fear.

"Are you going to finish that sentence?"

"When I ask you to stop stalking me," John continued, "I don't mean for you to dive under the water, swim up to me, pick me up, twirl me around, and try to grab me by the dick. Build up, Sherlock. We went over it. Do you remember anything about build up? Teasing?"

"I remember teasing perfectly well. 'Sherlock, stroke your testicles. Sherlock, get your legs further apart.'"

"Good. Yes, that."

"What I mostly remember is it didn't _work_."

_Oh. Shit. _John reminded himself never to fuck an empiricist. "You what?"

"It didn't work," insisted Sherlock. He preferred not to repeat himself, but would sometimes make that concession if he felt John were being especially thick. "What worked was that _you_ _put your hand on me_."

_Of course._ That's what John had done, and it had resulted in a shuddering climax for the person he was tutoring. Naturally, Sherlock thought this kind of abruptness worked on everybody.

John got lost for a moment in how it had been to touch Sherlock – how warm and slick and solid he felt against John's palm. The curve of him. The way his eyelids crinkled when he came. The way he bellowed his pleasure, as he bellowed everything else.

But most of all, John thought about the way Sherlock had cried out his name. In his mouth, it sounded like "Eureka." It sounded like he was announcing a scientific breakthrough. In fact, it was entirely possible that the discovery that other people had first names _was_ a scientific breakthrough, as far as Sherlock was concerned. Did he even _know_ anyone else's given name? John wouldn't be surprised if he'd deleted them all. A pity, because that voice …

_Er. _

John backed up. It wouldn't do for Sherlock to feel John's erection poking him smack in the arse in the middle of a talk on appropriate behavior.

"Ah. So you were …"

"Trying to return the favor, yes," said Sherlock, raising his head off the deck. He looked like a man well aware of almost having been skewered, mid-conversation, by an inexorable hard-on. "And I nearly got my shoulder dislocated for my trouble."

"I'm sorry I hurt you. I suppose you did offer to do to me what …" John let the thought trail off. "Just give a bloke some warning, will you? If we're going to do this, we need to start taking cues from each other. Check in with me, and if I want to try ... something on you, I'll do the same."

"Try _what_?" Sherlock wheeled around on his heels to fix John with an interrogative stare. It was a pity the aliens hadn't transported any outerwear for him. A greatcoat would have flapped dashingly about his submerged ankles just now. "What do you want to try?"

_Oh God._ A list of things John didn't want to try would have been shorter. Visions of sexual acts to be performed on top of, with, and at the mercy of one's brilliant, deranged roommate danced in his head like so many lithe, long-limbed sugarplums. He imagined licking his way down Sherlock's body, scratching him lightly with his nails. He pictured treating himself to Sherlock's mouth, his throat, his belly. His moans, his desire, his cock. The whole, long lushness of him. He thought of bending Sherlock, hard and wet and wanting, over the jubilantly springy blackcurrant bed. He thought about …

Sherlock regarded his roommate first with intensity, then with consternation, and finally with wry fascination. John felt as though the warp and weft of his own neurons were laid out in a carpet of perversion for the man to see.

"John. Allow me to congratulate you. Your brain, while not, for the most part, remarkable, has the advantage of being utterly _filthy_." Sherlock said the last word with the purring relish usually reserved for "toxic," "radioactive," or "literally on fire."

John coughed. "Yeah. Well. Getting back to …" He couldn't say "the subject at hand" without it sounding like a line from "Are You Being Served." Not that Sherlock would get the reference.

"The topic," he concluded. "We should have a safeword."

The look on Sherlock's face said, "I'll thank you not to speak gibberish." For a look with "thank you" in it, it was not a particularly thankful look.

"Right." John always tried to keep a partner's idiosyncrasies in mind _("Partner"? Is that what he is to me? Yes. No. Maybe_), but Sherlock presented special challenges. A man who wasn't aware that sodomy could not cause pregnancy was unlikely to have mastered the intricacies of sexual etiquette. Not that he'd mastered the etiquette of anything else. "It's a word that means 'stop.'"

Sherlock looked incredulous. "Such as, for example, 'stop'?"

"Er, yeah, but …" This speech had sounded so much more sensible when John had been on the receiving end of it on that memorable New Year's Eve in the loo at the Barrel and Biscuit. _The women's loo_, he mentally emphasized, in case Sherlock was listening in.

"John, it can hardly have escaped even your notice that there's _already_ a word for stop. And that word is …"

"OK, but I say 'stop' and you interpret that as the go-ahead for something even more over the top. If I'm asking you not to slink towards me, it's probably not time to grab a handful."

Sherlock considered this. There was a long pause.

"All right."

John blinked. "All right?"

"Yes. All right. Noted. I can _learn_, John. I'm not an imbecile. Show me what you want."

_Good Lord._ John felt as though he'd been handed a blank check. He took a deep breath. He put his hands on Sherlock's waist, then positioned the two of them an arm's length apart. The fact that the unit of measurement was based on John's arm, rather than Sherlock's, made them closer than they would otherwise be.

"Maybe you can start by, I don't know, touching me a bit."

John was about to provide information on where Sherlock could touch him – waist, arm, right shoulder – when Sherlock made a sudden movement. Before John could issue a word of caution, the man reached out and touched …

His face. His plain, he thought, and rather weathered face.

Perhaps wondering where the sweeping zygomatic arches were, Sherlock ran an inquisitive index finger over John's cheek. He gave similar attention to John's crow's feet. Next on the list was John's forehead. The long fingers were firm, careful, questioning.

John closed his eyes and let Sherlock memorize where his wrinkles were. In the past, John's partners had avoided them. No one wanted to call attention to the effects of time on a lover's body, no matter how fit and admirably preserved. Virtually no one, anyway.

Sherlock, however, was in his glory. He traced each fine line exactly once, enumerating them as an entomologist might the veins on a Venezuelan glasswing. His touch held precision and curiosity. These were as close as he got to reverence.

At the end of this ritual, John had no doubt that Sherlock would now be able to identify him from a chalk outline of his wrinkles alone, just as he might identify a fingerprint by its whorls or a corpse from its dental records. It occurred to John that being the subject of someone's pre-mortem investigation should have been disturbing. Somehow, with Sherlock, the gesture was sweetly intimate.

"May I back you up against the edge of the pool?"

John had been submerged in a state of tactilely produced hypnosis, but this snapped him out of it. "Why?"

"Because you were concerned about being seen. I feel … protective of you. Is that all right?"

John breathed out. "It's fine." He let Sherlock guide him backwards until his back encountered the solidity of the wall.

Ah. This was good. Whatever else was going on in the pool, Sherlock was eclipsing it. He was well suited to the task. Even by masculine standards, there was a lot of Sherlock to contend with, most of it laid out along the vertical axis.

And yet, for a man with so much _there_ there, there was still something vulnerable about him. John felt a bit guilty. It was clear who had the power in their burgeoning relationship, and it wasn't Sherlock.

"I want this," said Sherlock, having read the fine print on John's forehead. "You don't have to be afraid I don't."

"You haven't done this before."

"The thought has occurred."

"We could be jacked up on who knows what."

"I've spent most of my adult life 'jacked up on who knows what.' I'm sober, John. Trust an addict to know. I haven't been this sober since I was sixteen. I know you cherish the notion that we're both delirious on libido enhancers, but I think it's safe to say that, much like your limp – where has that gone, by the way? – your insistence that you're wildly inebriated is part of your own psychological defense sys—"

"Right," said John. There was no need for him to be laid any more bare than he already was. "So how do you …"

"Honestly, John. I don't have to know _how_ to bring you to climax in order to know that I want it. Now." Sherlock held out his wrist. "A practical demonstration. Show me."

John took the offered hand, squeezed it a moment, then pressed it against his solar plexus.

"Slowly," he said.

"I know."

John guided the flat of Sherlock's palm down his chest to his stomach.

"If you decide that it's …"

Sherlock let out a puff of frustrated air. "John, stop thinking. Just stop."

John giggled. The giggles became a guffaw.

"Oh God," he said, wiping his eyes on the back of his free hand. "First time I've heard you say _that_."

Sherlock grinned. It was a rare, honest, lopsided grin, and John felt blessed to have experienced it firsthand.

John guided Sherlock's palm down below the surface of the water and through the cloud of golden mica that had been protecting his modesty. Bidding said modesty farewell, he placed Sherlock's hand squarely on his balls.

"Ungh," said Sherlock, as if all his pleasure centers were located directly in his fingertips. If John thought he was going to get in the first moan, he was mistaken.

"So. Probably the best way to show you is by …" John extended a hand towards Sherlock's middle, then looked at him to check if it was all right.

"If you want," said Sherlock. There was that vaguely panicked look again.

"What?"

He swallowed, and John was treated to the sight of his Adam's apple dipping and rising in his long, refined throat.

"If you touch me, I'll have an orgasm. _Another_ orgasm. In addition to the one I just had." Nervousness erased Sherlock's ban on redundance.

"I'm already touching you," said John, looking down at the mica cloud concealing Sherlock's hand, which was still somewhere extraordinarily intimate.

"That's me touching _you_. It's different."

Just John's luck: Sherlock had no apparent knowledge of refractory periods.

"Sherlock, I don't think you're going to come immediately. You just got off, and you're in your thirties. You'll probably need a bit of a calm-down period before anything major happens again."

"All right." Sherlock placed John's free hand on himself. It didn't take but five seconds for his eyes to start rolling back in his head. "John. Oh, God. _John_."

Before the man could reach an apparently undesired climax, John removed his hand. "Um. I see what you mean."

John knew that this type of response – to wit, Sherlock being ready to go off like a SIG Sauer whenever John laid a hand on him – was widely considered to be a turn-off. He couldn't for the life of him think why. Who gave a damn about endurance? Sherlock would perhaps eventually work himself up to greater stamina, and if not, who cared. Not John. Not when the man in front of him was a beautiful, quivering, undefended mess.

"Right," said John. "Let's just work on me for a moment."

"Let's."

Ah. Here was the enthusiasm that had been absent from Sherlock's earlier, coerced acquiescence.

John molded Sherlock's fingers into a ring around the base of John's erection, then slowly moved it upwards. The ascension felt like six kinds of heaven, each slightly more perverse than the last.

"It feels good," said John. "You're not hurting me. You can relax."

"I'm trying to – oh. _Oh_." Sherlock had reached the glans in its velvet straightjacket.

"Unh. Um. That's … good." John knew there were other adjectives, but fuck if he could remember them. "Yeah. Drag your thumb …"

Sherlock already had ideas for where to drag his thumb. Like many of his ideas, these were fantastic.

"The skin," observed Sherlock, stroking it for emphasis. "It's not retracting."

John could feel himself blush. "Sometimes it gets a bit stuck."

Sherlock gave a short nod, as though this confirmed something he'd suspected. "I can see why. The delta between the girth of the head and the width of the shaft …"

_Oh, God_, thought John. _He's not put off by it. He _likes_ it._ _The daft bastard likes it. _This was starting to look like defining principle of their association. Things that should have put one or both of them off seemed magnificent in context.

"May I?" asked Sherlock with uncharacteristic delicacy.

"Uh, yeah. It's good you asked. Why not. Just …"

Sherlock gently eased the skin over the fat, sensitive glans, then eased it back down again, rubbing up against some of John's favorite millimeters of flesh in the process. John gave a little moan of ecstasy. Sherlock frowned in concentration. This was not an especially erotic look unless you had a theory as to what it meant, and John did. Having confirmed that his mate had an oversized knob, Sherlock was calculating what it would feel like to be gloriously, laboriously belabored by it.

The genius wanted feedback on his nascent hand job technique. "Do you like it?"

"Pervert. You know I do. You just want to hear me say it." John's balls had been aching for days with the strain of not emptying themselves into the gorgeous lunatic, but the ache was starting to convert itself into pleasure.

"Indulge me."

"I … _unh_. I fucking love it."

"May I use both hands?"

"Yeah."

John rather liked Sherlock putting the dirty things he wanted to do to John in question form. Even if his intonation was imperious. No, _especially_ if his intonation was imperious. John didn't want to think about what this meant about his own mental wiring.

Sherlock wrapped one hand around John's balls and stroked his length with the other. John, who had taught him this, mentally high-fived himself for his pedagogical skills.

"May I touch the slit?"

"Yeah. Mmm. Oh. _Fuck_."

Sherlock made a rumbling sound in his throat. "One thing at a time. May I chew your ear?"

"What?"

"Your ear."

God only knew where Sherlock had picked the ear thing up. Actually, _did_ God know? He was omniscient, John's Anglican upbringing had been fairly clear on that, but he was also omnipotent, and there were things about Sherlock that any all-powerful being would be well advised to delete.

"I don't think … it's not really …" Sherlock dragged his thumb from John's frenulum to his slit and back a few times, and suddenly, all of his ideas sounded brilliant again. "Ungh. All right. Go ahead. What the he—"

Without taking his hands off John's testicles and hardness, Sherlock bent his mouth to John's ear and nibbled.

"Sherlock. Shit." The nibbling thing was better than expected. "Keep doing tha—"

Sherlock obliged for a while. Then he took John's ear lobe between his teeth, held it just long enough to make the capillaries sing, and let go. John trembled. For about the fortieth time that day, he thought about what it would be like to have sex with his roommate.

John was fairly sure he could extrapolate how Sherlock would fuck from the way he walked across a room. He considered Sherlock's sinuous grace, his acrobatic body, the majesty of his hips. It had to be said that the man moved beautifully. His bull-in-a-china shop demeanor was purely a function of his personality; there was a dancer's elegance behind it. Whether in control or out of it, he was a force to be reckoned with. While not immune to the learning curve, Sherlock – terrifying, gorgeous, unwavering by default – promised to be a Vesuvius of sex. John let out a groan. As the stand-in for the hapless villagers, he was in big trouble.

Of course, not only did Sherlock identify, out loud, what John was thinking about, but he airily instructed him to continue.

"It's fine. Go ahead."

"Sherlock."

The sultry voice was low and insinuating and very close to John's ear. "I know you want to have sex with me. How badly do you want to push me down on the deck right now? You could. I'd let you. I don't care who's watching."

"Fucking hell. Sher—"

"I know you like the sounds I make. How do you imagine I'll sound the first time you fuck me?"

"Oh God."

Still rubbing John's cock, Sherlock gave a nod of expectations met. "That ought to set you off. Between your aural fixation and your virgin kink, I'm not sure how you'll stand it."

John was speechless. Encouraged by Sherlock's dirty mouth and his probing fingers, the pleasure that had rooted itself in his balls was beginning to send fresh green shoots upward. They curled and looped inside him like the tendrils of pea plants.

Sherlock tried an exploratory moan to see what John thought of it. The moan was breathy and surprised and desperate.

John wasn't sure how he was standing it _now_. "Sherlock. Sherlock, please."

"I want to finish you off. Will you permit that?"

"Yes. God, yes."

"You're beautiful," said Sherlock, and it seemed a very strange thing to say, because that was what John always – yes, always, whether he was arguing or theorizing or just generally being a cock – thought about _him_. "So beautiful, John. Let me see you. Let me feel you."

Sherlock was a fast learner. The more he touched John, the more nimble and knowing his fingers became.

John didn't think he could last much longer. He closed his eyes, leaned back against the wall, and delivered himself into his partner's hands. One cupped his balls, probably examining the tightness there, while the other teased his shaft and swollen cockhead, sliding over John's most sensitive spots and coaxing the ecstasy from him. John threw his head back, utterly ravished by the sensations.

"So good. _Unhhh_. Sh'lock. I'm …"

This thing, this pleasure that Sherlock had wrought for him: it made John's thighs shake and his head tip back, made his muscles clench and his teeth clamp down. It pulsed in his balls like a heartbeat. There was no way to stop it. It spiraled and soared. Its liquid power forced its way up his length and out the slit, making him shudder and cry out. His cock jerked once, twice, three times, squeezing out the last of it, and then there was bonelessness, weightlessness, and pure, elemental rapture. The pleasure toyed with him, using his body as its conduit, and he gave himself up to it, let it buffet him like a storm at sea. He rose and fell with the waves. They tossed and submerged him and brought him to shore, and in the aftermath, he lay panting and naked and as wrecked as any castaway, safe at last in the cove of his lover's arms.

_Lover_, thought John, groggily. He turned the word over several times in his mind.

_Fuck_.

* * *

A/N: Warm thanks to everyone who's favorited or commented. If you've written me while logged in, I've written you back, but if not, please accept my heartfelt gratitude for reading and reviewing.

Extra shout-outs go, in reverse alphabetical order, to **strangegibbon**, who's just completed the extraordinary Sherlock novel "In Memoriam"; my wise, witty friend **inconcvbl**; and fandom Boswell plus all-around sweetheart **arianedevere**. Also, the word "undefended" is unapologetically stolen from **snarryfool**, who is a marvel.


	9. Always Something

**Chapter Nine: Always Something**

Rated M for sexual themes. Also, I don't know who raised John, but he has the mouth of a sailor.

* * *

As his cellmate collapsed into his arms in a post-orgasmic daze, Sherlock Holmes observed three things.

1. He was in love with John Watson.

2. A large and dangerous wall of liquid, created by the unauthorized coital thrashings of three Midorian fire snakes – who were, after all, supposed to be tidying up – was headed their way.

3. John Watson was not in love with him and never would be, but _not_ for the obvious reasons.

In the moment before impact, Sherlock tried to lift John to safety, but John struggled and refused to go.

"Sherlock, wha—"

"John, look ou—"

A shimmering wave crashed over their heads, raining down mica like judgment. Time slowed like tree sap hardening into amber, catching them both in its golden soup. A geologic age passed. Their feet were no longer anywhere near the floor. Sherlock stretched out one hand to try to break their fall, but kept the other wrapped firmly around his partner. He couldn't see the other man due to the mica cloud enveloping them both, but he could feel him, heartbeat against elephantine heartbeat, frantic.

_John. John. I didn't know. _

At this point, the fully submerged Sherlock made a fourth observation, and it was this: while John had been knocked down by #2 on the list, he himself had been brought to his knees by #3.

* * *

Olive Hexagon, their soldier acquaintance, marched Sherlock back to the cell that served as home and left him there. Although Sherlock fought manfully, John, who had sustained a bump on the head, was taken by Umber Triangle to the infirmary.

With the newfound perspective of the irrevocably smitten, Sherlock could see more clearly than ever that Ut had it bad for Oh. Whenever the officer was around, all Ut's internal shapes, linguistic and otherwise, would hurry to the side Oh was on and hang there in abject longing. It was like watching children press their faces against a bakery window. Sherlock was glad his own internal shapes, such as they were, stayed put when John was near. Mostly.

Alone, he bounced with nervous energy on the edge of the jelly bed and showered his missing cellmate with deductions.

"'I don't like men,'" said Sherlock, quoting his partner. "So you say. _Constantly_."

He felt mildly put out with John for allowing himself to become concussed. If he hadn't chosen to smack his head on the pool floor, the two of them would still be together, and he might have been able to surreptitiously press his lengthy thigh against John's smaller one as they sat.

Absent John stared in amazement. _ Is this your idea of a post-date chat?_

"Have you ever seen a suspect trying to mislead law enforcement?" continued Sherlock. "Most suspects have no idea how to lie effectively. They lack imagination. They use the same words over and over again and think they're giving a convincing alibi. 'I was at my girlfriend's house.' 'I was in bed by ten.' 'I stayed up watching the Bond marathon.' They keep their stories simple, repeat things verbatim, and don't volunteer details."

Sherlock took a deep breath.

"John, you're a _terrible_ liar. Your normal speaking style is effusive, fluent, emphatic, but when it comes to dismissing the possibility of a real relationship with me, you repeat the same four syllables like a parrot. You fail to elaborate. You keep your story simple, so there's less chance of anyone finding you out."

_Hang on a minute …_

But Sherlock was on a roll, and not even incorporeal John could stop him.

"I've called you on the use of the plural before, thinking that it wasn't men you liked: it was me. I was flattering myself. My suspicions were focused on the wrong part of the sentence. The sleight of hand is in the verb."

The John who wasn't there ran short, nonexistent fingers through his short, insubstantial hair. _Leave it. For once. Leave it. _

Sherlock Holmes did nothing of the kind.

"You never say, 'I'm not attracted to men,'" he replied. "You never say, 'I don't sleep with men.' You never say, 'I don't let men excite me to orgasm.' You merely repeat that you don't like them. The implication is that 'like' is too strong a word. You know, John, while you may not _appear_ clever …"

_Oi!_

"You have unexpected flashes of genius. You can't bring yourself to lie to me about your past homosexual experiences — perhaps due to the pervasive integrity that often comes with strong moral principle, or perhaps because you, to some limited extent, _care_ for me in particular." Sherlock permitted himself an eye roll. "Whatever your motives, you tell the truth but cloak it in misdirection. 'Like' isn't too strong a word; it's too weak. There was someone, and you lo—"

It was difficult to horrify a man who kept toes in the crisper drawer, but the idea of John giving his adoration to some imbecile seemed to do the trick.

"You _fancied_ yourself in love with him," spat out the sleuth. Even this version of the truth was unpleasant to articulate.

_Fine, _said John, shaking his invisible head._ Go on, then. I can see you won't stop until you've worn yourself out. _

"Who was he? Military. Afghanistan. That's where you were for the last two years, and he's nothing if not fresh in your mind. You wouldn't have slept with a subordinate. You would have considered that an abuse of power, and rightly so. Did you date someone of your own rank? No. You dated _above_ your rank so that there was no possibility of coercion on your part. Stubborn, John. Very stubborn. If someone was going to risk mistreatment, you were determined that it would be you.

"So who was it? Your commanding officer? No. You're too noble to use your fit and quite … talented body in service of a promotion. A person of your character would tend to avoid even the appearance of such an arrangement. Pity. The rewards might have been substantial. Think it through, next time."

Absent John looked like he might very much like to take a swing at Sherlock for that last comment, but the latter had no fear of his incorporeal fists.

"Where was I? Yes. You're attracted to people with forceful personalities. People who are imposing. While you don't seem commanding at first glance, you can be quite dominant, and there aren't many people who can get your back against the wall. Did you sleep with a general? Unlikely. Your contact with officers on that level would have been limited. You fell in love with, and had sexual relations with, a major who belonged to another company and was therefore not your CO.

"What else? Taller than you – statistics make anything else unlikely, and besides, you have an obvious romantic interest in height – but under six feet. Your look of surprise whenever you consider how tall I am makes that clear. Fond of dogs …"

"Sherlock?" John walked in the cell door, accompanied by Ut. "Who are you talking to?"

"Major," said Sherlock, morose. He did not get up. "Afghanistan. Somewhere between 1.7 and 1.8 meters in height. Imperious. Intelligent: that's your type. A risk-taker, which is how he ended up in Afghanistan. Also your type. Different company. You met him at a forward operating base on a supply trip. Armadillo, was it?"

"Keenan."

"You loved him," accused Sherlock. He knew he sounded sentimental and weak, but he couldn't help it.

"Yeee-ess," said John, as though this were already obvious.

"Due to incomprehensible deficiencies in his personal taste, he didn't love you back. He merely used you for sex. And now you're refusing, against all logic, to fall in love with me. Because he hurt you, and I remind you of him."

"Sherlock."

"I'm not. I'm not him. I don't know if that makes things better or worse, as far as we stand. I …"

"Slow down." John sat down next to his partner, who was babbling uncontrollably. "Breathe. Can you breathe?"

Sherlock fixed John with a sharp stare. "Of course I can breathe."

"Then do."

Sherlock let his lungs expand to the fullest. The weight of the air was too much. He collapsed on his side and dropped his shaggy head into John's lap.

John rubbed his back. Sherlock could feel his hand catching on the right scapula on the upswing. Overcome by this display of human lewdness, Ut turned purple about the middle and promptly squidged out the door.

"You know," said John, "I should be really angry with you right now."

"Because I'm in love with you?"

The elevators that were John's eyebrows rose swiftly in surprise, then descended in concern. "No. No, I hadn't … I didn't … no. Sherlock, you weren't listening."

"Not listening to what?"

"Do you remember when I asked how they expected us to breed?"

"Yes." The thought propelled Sherlock into pleasant reverie.

"And do you remember me spending the next ten minutes telling you that I was in a very messy relationship with a major at FOB Keenan, and that I never wanted to go through anything like it again?"

This was unexpected.

"Not really, no."

"Did you _delete_ it?"

"No," said Sherlock, heavily. "You had it right the first time. I was … preoccupied."

"With what exactly?"

"With …" Sherlock waved his hands as though juggling sticks on fire. "Things."

"What sort of things?"

"Breeding things," admitted Sherlock. _Honestly_. It wasn't fair for John to build a mind bordello in Sherlock's brain, plunk himself down on the mind divan, unbutton his mind shirt, then chastise Sherlock for showing some interest.

John snorted. It was an exceedingly merry snort.

"I fail to see what's so entertaining."

"I know you do. C'mon, don't be angry. It's just … you're the most prurient 34-year-old virgin I've ever met."

Sherlock sniffed. "I hardly think I qualify as chaste. I did digitally stimulate you to completion not an hour ago."

"You know, you can say 'hand job.'"

"Hand job," echoed Sherlock dully, as if exposing the vanity of all things.

"Mmm," said John. "Love it when you talk dirty."

Sherlock found it very difficult to think while John was carding his hand through his hair. Nobody, not even Sherlock's mother, had ever been able to make it through the tangles, but John moved effortlessly, as if parting the Red Sea.

"You're getting us off track. The point is, you loved this contemptible idiot. And now you're not willing to love me. Which is unfair."

"I suppose no one's told you, but fairness is not really a characteristic of love. Or war."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in suspicion at what appeared to be a quotation of some kind. "Please stop showing off your appalling familiarity with popular culture, 'literature,' and the ravings of the BBC. I don't appreciate being patronized, and anyway, it's irrelevant."

"Yes, well, you thought that about astronomy, and look where you are now."

Sherlock gave his partner the glare of the terminally unamused.

"Yeah," said John. "Um. Right. I loved him. He was a bastard and an arse and an utter shit, and I loved the hell out of him. God, how I loved that fucking prick."

Sherlock put a hand to his left temple, which was suddenly throbbing. "Is this my punishment for dismantling your alibi? Because it's working."

"No. It's mine. It hurts to think about him. Actually, you know what? It hurts to think about me. About what I became to make him happy. They say love is elevating. It isn't. Not always."

"Mmpf," grumbled Sherlock. "I expected as much."

"I would have done anything for him. I would have given that man my own kidney. No, both of them. Not even for health reasons, necessarily. He could have placed them on the mantelpiece for decorative purposes. The fucker."

"_Really_." Sherlock brightened at this.

"Don't tell me," said John, taking in Sherlock's suddenly cheerful face. "I don't want to know."

The two of them stared through the transparent wall of their enclosure at the passing stars.

"So I'm right," said Sherlock. "It doesn't matter what I feel for you. You're not willing to ..."

John looked at Sherlock, then looked away. The lack of contradiction hung heavily between them.

"Then I'll settle," said Sherlock, as much to himself as to John.

"OK, that is _not_ …"

"Look, I don't know how long we'll be here. You'll be sent home shortly, or I will, or one or both of us will be sent out the airlock." Sherlock wasn't sure he hadn't already been sent. He was experiencing a distinct lack of oxygen. "In the meantime, let me touch you. Will you do that? I've shown promise at it, and I'll get better. I can …"

"Will you stop? I don't need a list. That's enough."

Sherlock sulked.

"It's a good job you didn't come up with a safeword," he muttered. "You'd have said it forty times by now – _broccoli, broccoli, for God's sake, broccoli_ – and all efficacy would have worn off."

John chewed pensively on his index finger. "You know, you're probably not even in love with me. You're just high on sex. I got you off, and it flooded your system with oxytocin and dopamine and who knows what. It's bound to have left you a bit vulnerable."

"So you're saying what? That I've imprinted on you?" Sherlock rifled through his mind palace and found Konrad Lorenz, his white beard reminiscent of Colonel Sanders, hiding in the cupboard below the stairs. "That you introduced me to contact with my own species, and I'm compelled to follow you around for the rest of my days like a baby duck?"

John tried not to giggle at this.

"Stop laughing. I am _not_ a baby duck."

"Of course not," said John, giggling harder.

Operation Curtail John's Levity was not a success. The person in charge of the mission was co-opted by the enemy and ended up giggling too. Eventually, Sherlock pulled John down to kiss him.

"You're right," said John, looking into Sherlock's eyes and trying to catch his breath. "And wrong. He was like you, but different. Pragmatic."

"I'm not pragmatic?"

"No. You're utterly insane. Insane is the opposite of pragmatic."

"Just to be clear, you prefer insane."

"Yeah. From a medical standpoint, I shouldn't, but I do. You have no filter. You're ridiculously honest. Maybe not with everyone, but with me. Even if you _were_ using me for sex, which I sincerely doubt, you'd be telling me all about it while you were doing it. That's … strangely refreshing.

"But yeah. I'm not. Willing, I mean. To be in love. It's not the kind of thing a person would wish on themselves. It's hard and it's painful and it's usually a terrible mistake. So no. Really not."

Several minor planets ceased to rotate. The universe stopped expanding and began to contract. All things hurtled towards their inevitable heat death.

John cleared his throat.

"But I am," he clarified. "Anyway."

Sherlock's head tilted on its axis. He regarded John with puzzlement.

"With?"

"For crying out loud, you great pillock. With you."

John kissed him, and the universe started up again.

* * *

A/N: If you have not read the recently completed Johnlock novel "The Thing Is" by **TSylvestrisA**, now would be a really good time to do that. Go on. I'll wait.

A big thank you to my friend, the unstoppable **Ariane DeVere**, for hand-lettering herself an "Outed by Pandas" shirt. It was a sweet, funny, creative thing to do, and I was deeply touched. Though not, thankfully, by pandas.


	10. Transport

**Chapter Ten: Transport**

As always, expect sexual themes and consent issues. And I do mean always. At the bank, in the park, on a ski lift. I've never been on a ski lift, but you can't be too careful.

* * *

"You know," said John, "I saw something when I was walking back from the infirmary with Ut. There's a room with about fifty giant pod things in it."

Sherlock was crouched down by the long transparent wall of their sleeping quarters. The wall looked out over the millions of incandescent stars that currently served as their front yard.

"Mm," said Sherlock. He was tending his experiments. The current one involved evaporating soup in a shallow pan that had previously held a number of bioluminescent plants. Although whether that number was one or a thousand, John couldn't tell. One Keplerian plant looked like goo with spangles in it. Many Keplerian plants looked like more goo with spangles in it. If there was anything mathematically discrete about goo with spangles, John had yet to discover it.

"They looked like giant clamshells or something. At first I thought it was, you know, the mollusk section. There were all these Keplerians with pentagons up top squidging around. Scientists, right?"

Sherlock gave a little hum under his breath. It was assent, but just barely. John forged ahead.

"Well, one of the scientists goes over to one of the shells, and it opens up. It's all lit up with different shapes inside. Junior scientist, Plum Tomato, whatever you want to call him, squidges himself into the shell. He presses some of the shapes, and the clamshell shuts. Then it starts shaking and light shoots out the middle. And when it opens again, there's nobody in it."

While John felt that this was very much a _ta-da_ moment, Sherlock didn't herald it with so much as a grunt.

"Hello? The scientist wasn't in the shell anymore."

"Mm."

"'Mm?' That's all you've got for me?" John stared at his companion in disbelief. I've seen 'Mm,' and this is not it. This is 'Wow.' Or 'Woah.' Or 'Bon voyage.' Sherlock, the shell is a form of transportation. It has to be. I don't know how things work in Kensington, but in Aldershot, when the lift leaves the ground floor, it hasn't just blinked out into nothingness: it's gone to the first."

"Has it really? Fascinating, John. Your wealth of life experience never ceases to amaze me."

"Listen, you arse. You do realize that this is potentially our way home? That what I saw is the Keplerian version of – well, not a big station, not Charing Cross, mind you, but at least Woolwich Dockyard? Look, I'm sorry I don't have more exciting news for you. I'm sure you'd rather hear that the shell contained two dead triplets, Jack the Ripper, and a …"

John didn't have time to throw in the relocated manatee. "The test results are back," interrupted Sherlock.

"For your sperm sample?"

Sherlock nodded.

"When?"

"Just now. Ut told me when it came by with room service."

"Yes. Our evening meal. One full portion of which you are playing with, rather than eating."

"I hardly think this is the time to evaluate my dietary habits."

John knew better than to ask when that felicitous time would come. It was his opinion that the time in question arrived several times a day, whereas Sherlock was convinced that it never arrived. They sniped companionably about it roughly every two earth days, with the end result that that was now how often Sherlock ate.

John walked over to his companion and sat down beside him, looking out at the steely Wartenberg wheels of the stars.

"The results," he prompted.

Sherlock bunched his brows together and stabbed accusingly at his pan of experimental soup with a pale index finger.

"According to Ut, the results were 'wiggly.' Or possibly 'squirmy.' I don't care about the results."

"Then why are you so bloody upset?"

"I'm not _upset_," said Sherlock, waving one arm about as though shepherding an unseen brass section through the finale of _Boléro_. This was a sign that he was about to go off on a tear about "ruminating" and "ramifications" and "logic." John thought it best to redirect him off now, before the crests of his ears had time to transform themselves into half-Vulcan points, quivering with suppressed rage in his unruly hair.

"Fine. Noted. The thing that …" John fumbled for the words. "Hasn't upset you. Do you want to talk about it?"

"The scientists, and Plum Duff in particular, think my sperm is good, productive, well suited to breeding. It's panda-quality, as far as they're concerned. John, they don't think I'm the problem. They're done with me, and now they're going to go after you."

"Ah." John rubbed a hand over his face.

"I don't want them touching you," said Sherlock.

"That makes two of us," replied John.

Something seemed to be on Sherlock's mind. As minds went, it was vast and expansive. John pictured it as a sort of dais. Something was virtually always on it.

"Your reluctance," Sherlock ventured. "At first you didn't want me …"

"I always wanted you," corrected John. "I just didn't want to want you, if that makes sense."

John's initial attraction to Sherlock had not come calling in a stretch limo equipped with a bar and a king-sized waterbed. Rather, it had come screeching up to the curb in a van full of rubber tubing and duct tape, then wrestled him kicking and shouting into the back. It was nothing he had consented to, it was just _there_, and from the beginning, it had borne down upon him with a roaring inexorability.

"I suppose. As much as anything you come up with ever does."

"Thanks."

"You've been adverse to participating in the shipboard breeding program from the moment you got here."

"You can hardly blame me for that."

"I don't blame you. If anything, I marvel at the myriad forms your objections have taken. From the start, you doubted that we would be able to reproduce, despite the fact that Keplerian technology is obviously advanced, or else we wouldn't be 600 light-years away from NW1. Then you were plagued by concerns about consent. Yours, of course, but also mine, as you believed we were both on drugs and that I, as a virgin, would have no idea what I was consenting to. You were also reluctant to fall back into another relationship with a man, because your last one went so badly. Is this an accurate summary of things so far?"

"Yeah. Fair enough."

"Furthermore, your last real relationship exacerbated your self-directed homophobia. While you support your lesbian sister, you've been quick to disavow your own same-sex leanings: an attitude which, by the way, is disingenuous, patronizing, and intellectually dubious. Consequently, you've been squeamish about giving yourself up wholeheartedly to Keplerian research."

John gave a short, exasperated huff. Being himself short and exasperated, it was the huff he was most qualified to give.

"Oh, baby. It turns me on so much when you talk like that. Can we just fuck now? I don't know about you, but I'm having trouble restrai—"

"Don't pretend that our interpersonal issues are entirely on me. I'm not the one who's spent his entire time on board congratulating himself for being straight. Whom did you think you were impressing when you made sure that I knew that your assignations in the public loo took place in the ladies', not the gents'?"

"Wait, what? How do you even _know_ about the public loo?"

"You're oppositional …"

"_I'm_ oppositional?"

"And you refuse to have sex at someone else's say-so, unless, of course, that person is wearing a mini-skirt and standing in a shrub on Hampstead Heath. Whilst I may be able to talk you out of these illogical positions …"

"Not like that, you can't."

"We now reach the crux of the matter, and I don't see a way past it. I'm forced to conclude that your current objection to participating in the breeding program is more logically coherent than the previous ones, and therefore, less amenable to change." Sherlock drew his knees up to his chest and balanced his chin on top of them.

"And what do you see as my current objection, since obviously, a sense of privacy and a desire for self-determination aren't reason enough?"

"You don't want to have children with me."

John blinked.

"Steady on. I never …"

"You never said anything about the public loo, either. Not with your lips."

"You know that we've only just started dating, right? This is very early in the game. It's not that I don't want to have children. Eventually. With a long-term partner."

"As in, not me."

"Quite possibly you. But it's a question of when and where. I don't want children now, and I don't want children _here_."

"Where else would we have them? You've said yourself that we can't breed naturally. From what you're saying, there's no current earth technology that would allow the two of us to reproduce. But there may be a Keplerian technology that would permit it."

"Sherlock, be reasonable."

"I'm always reasonable."

John took a deep, Sherlock-cleansing breath. "Look at this place. We're either in a prison colony or a zoo. Does that sound like somewhere a child should be?"

"It's also a lab," Sherlock pointed out. "A science station. I would have been fine here as a child. I'm largely fine here now."

"Largely."

"Any unhappiness I've experienced has been prompted by conflict between us."

"That's awful. Or romantic. Or both."

Sherlock poked determinedly at his soup.

"So how are they planning to collect, you know, a sample? From me?" John wasn't looking forward to the answer.

"Ut says they'd just as soon milk you."

"Well, that's lovely. Ergh. Can you not use that as a verb? Some of us drink that stuff."

Sherlock was as interested in rearranging his vocabulary to suit John's delicate sensibilities as he was in upgrading his diet.

"I intend to point to my own experience in the milking bay as evidence that humans can't be stimulated to orgasm via the methods they use. I believe I can talk them into accepting an alternative method."

"Sorry, what? You're going to promise them you'll stroke me off and let them help themselves to the aftermath?"

"We know that 'stroking you off,' as you so eloquently put it, works. It will give them the results they want, and it will buy us time."

"That's not the point!"

"Why is it that whenever I bring up something that's unimpeachably true during one of our arguments, you respond with 'That's not the point?'"

"Because it isn't! If you're going to touch me, it should be because we both want it, not because somebody else feels like having a peep show, or a collection of human infants, or anything else."

"Do you not want my hands on you?"

"Of course I do. But not …"

"Oh, _God_. You want to get off. I want to get you off. What does it matter what anyone else wants? Are you the kind of man who would refuse to go out with me just because your mother thought I came from a good family and had nice teeth?"

"You have _British_ teeth," specified John. "A bit ramshackle on the bottom. A bit Stonehenge."

"Marvelous. You dislike my teeth."

"I love your tee—"

"I refuse to let Plum Duff do this. How dare it touch you? I don't mind if Ut pats you, but if Plum Duff extends an appendage in your direction, I am going to rip it off and strangle that idiot with it."

"You know, that's really not…"

"If anyone puts an appendage of any kind on you or _in_ you with sexual intent, it's going to be me. I am _not_ giving you up to a giant jelly baby with a pentagon on its head, and I'm not letting anyone put you in a _machine_."

By rights, the sound of Sherlock's bellowing should have echoed off the walls. John wondered how the Keplerian materials managed to absorb it.

"A machine," he repeated.

Sherlock nodded, then kicked half-heartedly at his pan of soup.

"You didn't mind when they used it on you," John said.

"I mind this."

John pinched the bridge of his own nose. "So. How much longer until they come to collect?"

"The gestation period of a Camparian sand hamster."

"That doesn't sound so bad."

"Possibly one night. It's a very efficient hamster."

"Do you think they'll be able to?" asked John. "You know, make children. Out of our combined samples."

Sherlock looked at John as though he were inquiring after the street price of the 2006 High Tea and Savories Barbie Doll Gift Set with mocha-hued cocktail dress and matching cocoa pumps.

"Not my area," he commented. Given his relative lack of familiarity with, for example, kissing, this was the understatement of the year.

"Right. OK. Shit. I think they actually did create mice with two genetic fathers in Texas just recently. There was an article about it in _Biology of Reproduction_."

"You read it?"

"I waited until it was summarized in the _Daily Mail_," admitted John, "and then read that. Don't give me that face! I'm a field surgeon. Ask me anything you want about IEDs, but don't expect me to spend all day wading through some wank about tetraploid complementation and functional oocytes. I don't know. It's a complicated procedure. They put some stem cells from a boy mouse into a Petri dish. Boy cells. What? Stop smiling, you fucker. This is science."

"I must have got something in my eye. By all means, continue."

"Some of the stem cells just naturally lose their Y chromosomes while they're sitting in the culture. So then, instead of having two sex chromosomes, they've only got the one."

"And the resulting cells, what are they? Boy cells or girl cells?"

"Neither. They're not XY or XX. They're XO."

Sherlock chewed his lower lip. "Like us."

"Not like us. We're XY. Trust me on this. If you were XO, you wouldn't have a dick."

"No, I mean like the symbols for us in Keplerian. You're a circle, I'm a cross. Perhaps they're referencing the process for making children with two fathers."

"I hope not."

"Why?"

"Well, for one thing, the first mouse father is an embryo. And dead."

"And the second mouse father?"

"He mates with a chimeric female mouse. 'Chimeric' means that she was injected with the first mouse father's XO cells early in her development, so she's kind of a genetic patchwork. Look, I think you're making too much out of this. A cross and a circle could mean anything. I had an American girlfriend who used to sign her emails that way. The X stands for 'kiss,' and the O for 'hug.'"

Sherlock did not look enthusiastic about the effusive trollop formerly known as John's American girlfriend.

"I'd rather be the first mouse father than the second," he muttered, stirring his pan of soup with his thumb.

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to sleep with anyone who isn't you," said Sherlock. "And if you're going to sleep with someone else, I'd rather not be around when it happens."

John grinned. "You haven't slept with me yet. I might be rubbish."

Sherlock fixed John with an appraising eye. Two, in fact, both the color of the sky over Regent's Park just before a light snow.

"That," he said, "remains to be seen."

* * *

A/N: Ariane DeVere has given me permission to link to a photo of her modeling her "Outed by Pandas" shirt! She made it herself, and I love it. And its creator. Sorry there's no actual smut in this chapter, sweetie. You can find the link in the XO section on my FF net profile page. Sit down before you click through to the photograph so as not to be bowled over by the awesome.

Resident biology expert strangegibbon (encouragement hers, mistakes mine) found something amazing in an Asian market. It's XO Sauce. Guess what: it has a panda on it. For her photograph of this marvel, please google _mirithgriffin_ _photobucket_. Or check the XO section of Ye Aforementioned FF Net Profile Page.

Thanks again to everyone who's commented or clicked a button in support. It makes me happy and grateful and it limbers up my typing fingers.


	11. Phase Change

**Chapter 11: Phase Change**

Promises: Men going at it.

Warning: Autoerotic asphyxiation is mentioned in a forensic context. None of the sex actually practiced in this chapter is autoerotic ("which is fine, by the way") or asphyxiative ("bit not good").

* * *

Sherlock woke from a long sleep on the blackcurrant jelly bed. John was no longer clasped in his arms, as he had been when Sherlock had closed his eyes. Instead, he was searching for data. In Sherlock's crotch. With his lips.

"John?" mumbled Sherlock. He was naked, and his limbs were flung out to the cardinal points like the sails of a large and gangly pinwheel.

On the rare occasions when he slept, Sherlock liked to spread himself out. It was part of his overall plan for appearing bigger than he was. During waking hours, he was able to make strategic use of a booming voice (his overcoat, sadly, was still on Baker Street), but asleep, he had to make do by spreading his limbs like a four-armed starfish. John, who was trickier and more subtle than he looked, had apparently taken advantage of this and ensconced himself between Sherlock's pale thighs while he was still unconscious.

Sherlock correctly deduced that this was turnabout for having been pushed out of bed.

John looked up at Sherlock, his face lit by the warm peach-gold glow of the bioluminescent plants that filled the room's lamps and sconces. The light they cast was flattering to John's skin. He looked as though he were made of butterscotch. Although the plants had been blue-green when Sherlock first arrived, they'd recently added silver, gold, and a peachy and decidedly non-alabaster flesh tone to their chromatic repertoire. Sherlock suspected they had cribbed these colors off of John.

"Want you," said John.

"Want me what?"

John kissed Sherlock's inner thigh, then licked a trail from the spot he had kissed up into his pubic hair. "Does this give you any idea?"

It was very hard to think when John had his sex voice on. Sherlock felt his blood rush south, where it formed a welcoming party in his hardening cock. The welcoming party's banner read, "Take me, John."

"Some," said Sherlock, by which he meant, "virtually none." He didn't like to admit to being out of his league if he could help it.

It occurred to Sherlock that his anatomy was becoming more Keplerian under John's influence. A few words or a touch from John, and Sherlock's prick would orient itself towards the object of his affections, its graceful curve rising towards him in silent and hopeful longing. As with most human males, his awakening desire expressed itself cylindrically. If it was odd to have all one's squares and triangles rush to one side, it was no odder than having a portion of one's body expand itself into a rod for one's beloved's perusal. In both cases, the relevant organs did their best to get closer to the places on their lovers where they might be housed.

Oblivious to these deliberations, John was busy finding out more about Sherlock's pubic hair. With his nose. Which was nuzzling somewhere Sherlock had never been nuzzled before.

"Blow job," said John. "Want to give you one."

"Ah," said Sherlock.

"Will you let me? I know … well. You've never had one."

It was clear that John knew a lot more about the situation than Sherlock did.

"If you'd like to blow on me, you may. I trust you."

John's round eyes somehow went more open than they already were. He looked simultaneously touched and incredulous.

"Sorry," he said, regrouping. "Maybe they called it something else at Eton. Fellatio?"

Sherlock frowned. John had said "fellatio" before, right after the Keplerian reinforcements had barged into their room to watch them breed. Sherlock hadn't had time to inquire what it meant. Was it Italian? _Adagio_,_ allegro non troppo_,_ fellatio_. It sounded like a tempo marking. There was something operatic about it.

"Fucking hell." Only John could swear and have it sound that fond, that inclusive and empathetic. "Sherlock, how … how much did you delete about sex?"

_Tedious_, thought Sherlock. It was one of his many mental synonyms for "mortifying." Not because it had to do with sex, which didn't alarm him. It couldn't. He'd never had it. No, it was embarrassing because it had to do with things that he didn't know, and which John thought he should.

"To tell you _that_, I would need to know what I deleted. I don't know what I've deleted. That's the whole point of deleting it."

"Humor me. A rough estimate."

"The unnecessary parts!"

"Shit. So … pretty much all of it?"

This seemed likely. Sherlock checked his mind bordello for information, but the only noteworthy thing in it was his mind-John, who had shucked his mind-shirt and was lounging around by the Jacuzzi. A building permit tacked to the door indicated that the entire area was of very recent construction.

"OK. We don't have to do this, but I want to suck you off. Which is probably a more accurate term than 'blow.'" John searched for terms that Sherlock would know. "I want to give you an orgasm with my mouth."

"Why?" Sherlock's intellectual curiosity demanded to be satisfied. Sherlock's cock had other priorities. It reached up and tapped John on the chin, in case he was having trouble locating it. Given the state of the thing, this was unnecessary.

"Because I haven't done anything for you yet. And I want to."

"You've done plenty for me."

"Not sexually. I haven't got you off yet. Not on purpose. It's different when you do it on purpose. I want to make you feel good. You made me feel – ungh, Sherlock, fantastic, back at the pool. I can't stop thinking about it. And …"

Sherlock knew more about what "and" meant than he did about blow jobs.

"Romance," he translated. This was a subset of sentiment. "You're a romantic. If you're taken to the lab, you want to have this to remember. You want to be able to look back and imagine us together. John, I …"

_I what? Won't let them take you?_

If there was a way to prevent John from being taken when their captors willed it, Sherlock hadn't found it. John had already been taken from him once, at the cleansing pool. It was infuriating, and it made Sherlock want to kick something with his size-11 feet.

"Yeah," said John. "So. Can I?"

Sherlock didn't correct his grammar. Although he was not usually concerned with etiquette, doubts about the appropriateness of giving one's beloved a lesson on auxiliary verbs ("I don't know, can you?") during an affectionate moment crept into his mind. Also, there was the distinct possibility that a corrected John would refuse to pleasure him.

"Yes," said Sherlock, and left it at that.

* * *

"Oh God," said Sherlock.

John was licking him. Holding Sherlock's testicles aloft, he licked a warm, wet, targeted stripe down the seam of his sack to the plain of his perineum, then back again.

"All right?" said John.

It was better than all right. John's attentions made the fine hairs on Sherlock's legs stand on end. Like his cock, these oriented themselves towards John.

"Ungh," remarked Sherlock, who felt a sudden need to express himself with grunts.

John correctly identified this as assent. He took one of Sherlock's balls into his mouth and sucked on it. Sherlock's erect penis throbbed impatiently against his stomach.

"Give me feedback," said John. "I want to know if something isn't working for you."

Sherlock calculated the probability of things not working for him in this particular situation as … low. Not five percent, not three percent, just ... quite low. The haze of enjoyment he was currently experiencing made mathematical precision impossible. Seeking more information, he propped himself up on his elbows and stared at John, who was busy petting the underside of Sherlock's cock with his face. Sherlock groaned and fell back against the jelly.

"Look at you," said John. "Gorgeous. You're so …" He lifted his head and stroked Sherlock's side, gentling him as he would a horse. "I want to do everything to you at once."

Sherlock nodded, overwhelmed. He felt as though John were already doing everything to him at once.

"I don't know how long I'll last if you suck me."

Saying the words made them more real. A shiver of electricity fingered Sherlock's spine.

"I don't mind. God, Sherlock. When you get excited, it's so fucking hot I can hardly stand it. I wouldn't care if you came in five seconds. Does it bother you that we didn't draw it out longer last time?"

"Possibly," said Sherlock. It was a three-syllable word for "yes."

"It may just be that you're inexperienced," said John, licking his lips. John had a pronounced virgin kink, and it seemed to be getting worse. "Premature ejaculation – not that I'm saying you're premature, because any time you come, it's Christmas, as far as I'm concerned – it's more common in men who don't have sex often. Your body thinks it won't have the chance again, so it hurries to make up for that."

Sherlock wished _John's_ body would hurry. His erection bounced against his stomach, trying to flag down physical attention.

"Do you want to think about dull things while we do it? You know, digits of pi after the decimal, the periodic table. Some men find that helps them slow down."

"I _like_ the periodic table," said Sherlock. His cock thickened a bit for emphasis. "John, get _on_ with it."

John scooted back on his knees and rubbed his short hair against the insides of Sherlock's thighs, letting Sherlock feel him there. Then he crawled over Sherlock and kissed his bare hip.

"Want you," repeated John. "I'm going to take you into my mouth now, all right? Tell me if …"

"Binary system," proposed Sherlock. He was willing to sacrifice nuance if it would mean getting in John's mouth faster. "If I don't say no, it's yes."

"All right," said John. "We can continue to get a feel for things as we go. I'll check on you periodically, but otherwise, I'll keep going until you tell me to stop."

John closed his mouth over the tip of Sherlock's prick. His tongue – his clever, amazing tongue – rested gently against the frenulum.

Sherlock gasped as a jolt of pleasure shot through him.

"All right?" said John. It came out a bit garbled. He had a dick in his mouth, after all.

"Yes," said Sherlock. Having John touch him there, even in the absence of motion, was incredibly arousing. John pulled off him, then sank back down on him. Sherlock watched his own pink slickness disappear into his lover's. In color, in texture, the inside of John's mouth mirrored the slippery tip of Sherlock's penis. It was like a neon sign from the universe proclaiming that one belonged with the other.

Sherlock liked silky things, and John was surprisingly silky. Bits of him, anyway. His hair, when Sherlock stroked it, was splendidly soft. His face was weathered, as befitted a soldier, but sun and bullets hadn't touched him everywhere. The skin of his arse was especially smooth and fine-grained, as Sherlock had discovered by pressing against him as he slept. Out of all of John's silkinesses, however, the most luxurious was to be found within his sweet, hot mouth. Sherlock moaned with pleasure as it enveloped him.

John pulled off him again. "I'm going to go all the way down your shaft, then back again. Too much attention to the head will make you go off sooner. That's where most of your nerve endings are."

Sherlock didn't put it past his nerve endings to figure out where John was and then migrate to suit. He nodded anyway.

John took him in, moved down until his lips were halfway to the base, then came back up again. When he reached the crown, he gave the underside of Sherlock's glans a lingering lick, then moved back down. He did this several times, and each time, the heat in Sherlock's groin became more intense.

"Too much," blurted Sherlock. "John, I'm going to."

John pulled off him again. "Let's rest a moment, then I'll keep going. God, you're tightly wound. Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?"

Sherlock looked down the length of his body. At the moment, his physical form mostly reminded him of a sundial, with the gnomon pointing fiercely to John o'clock.

"I could do this to you all night."

"Keplerian nights last three times longer."

"I stand by my original statement."

In addition to being enthusiastic, John was the nicest feeling thing in the history of nice-feeling things. From a purely tactile point of view, John was a marvel. Sherlock tried to explain to John how nice he felt in the hopes that John would suck on his penis some more.

"You're soft, John. So soft. The inside of your mouth. To listen to you talk, you'd think you'd be all prickles."

"You're babbling," said John. The skin at the corner of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. "I'll chalk that up to my sexual prowess. Do you want to continue?"

"Let's."

"OK, focus on breathing. Breathe in, then let it all out. If you breathe too shallowly, you'll be more likely to come."

"Autoerotic asphyxiation," recited Sherlock. "Carbon dioxide build-up in the brain."

John gave him a complicated look. "Of course. You don't know what a blow job is, but you're familiar with _that_."

"Necessary information. Important to distinguish between homicide and inadvertent self-harm in cases where the victim has died from lack of oxyg— _gah_, John, yes, more."

John was brilliant. He licked and sucked but withheld the pleasure of his hands, knowing that any added sensation would shatter Sherlock's already precarious self-control.

"I'm getting closer – no, don't stop." Sherlock clutched at John's shoulders with his thighs. "Please don't stop."

His partner shot him a look of pure lust, then took him down to the root. Sherlock made a mental note that begging turned John on.

"Ohhhh, _God_," he drawled. "You're exceptional. Please, John. Will you let me penetrate you some day? Not just your mouth, but …"

John, whose mouth was full, gave an amiable grunt. His tongue was slick and his lips were wicked.

Sherlock was babbling for real now. He heard himself praising John's technique, begging John to continue, pleading with John to let him come, asking John if he could fuck his face. At this last request, John thrust two hands under Sherlock, grabbed his arse, and began fucking his own throat with the head of Sherlock's prick.

Sherlock bucked and cried out as John suckled him. It was too much. The pleasure needed to leave his overworked system, and the only pathway out was through his prick. For a moment, every muscle in his body seized up – his abdominals, his quadriceps, his biceps, all mimicking the absolute rigidity of what John was sucking. Then the orgasm hit him. It slammed into him with the intensity of a meteor crashing into an Earthly sea. With his pulsing cock as the epicenter, waves of pleasure expanded out from his core. They surged into his belly, his thighs, his nipples, his fingertips. He swore he could feel them in his hair.

The pleasure had unmoored him. He had never felt so liquid. For a moment, he could see himself as if from above. Head tossed back, arms in disarray, thighs wide apart and trembling, he flooded John's mouth with the evidence of his joy.

* * *

A/N: Much gratitude to everyone who's commented or favorited. This chapter goes out to **mattsloved1**, who says she's writing me a Christmas fic! Please accept this traditional holiday depiction of a blow job. I believe that's how we express heartfelt appreciation.

Also huge thanks to **staceuo**, who sent me a necklace made out of _an actual vinyl record_ _with pandas on it_. So badass.


	12. Tempest on a Jelly Bed

**Chapter Twelve: Tempest on a Jelly Bed**

Promises: Men going at it.

* * *

John tumbled and tossed on a sea of dreams. His dreams smelled of Scots pine, rain, dark hollows, the secret places of the earth. He ran through the woods at night, following the sound of footsteps. Peering through the trees, he caught a glimpse of dark curls, a body like birch bark, a holly berry mouth. A sylph, an Ariel, a creature of the air trapped and taken over by the forest.

"Find me," said Sherlock, and John went to him. He brought him to ground near a pool of shining water. He held him down in a bed of soft moss and pine needles, this wild thing, this airy spirit. He felt Sherlock's heart pounding against his rib cage, marveled to watch the pale chest rise and fall under his fingertips.

He wasn't human. He couldn't be. Men were blocky, earthbound things, creatures of right angles. Sherlock was soaring and ethereal, a creature of arcs and slants. Naked, he was a fugue, his quicksilver themes repeating themselves as one ripple repeats another. The shape of his almond eyes found its echo in his pink and oval areolas. The shape of his lower lip recalled the curves of his hair, his arse, his awakening cock. He was beautiful, and he quickened John's breath and stirred his desire.

John sucked his fingers. He prepared a place for himself inside the air sprite's body. He entered, and Sherlock closed tightly around him. They rocked and tossed like trees in a storm, and the wind spoke through them in moans and whispers.

"Free me," said Sherlock. "I've been here too long. Let me find release."

Trembling, John did as he was told. Sherlock cried out. John felt him rising, felt him lifting up, freed at last from his enchantment. Now it was John who was trapped, confined in the dark forest.

But the sprite wouldn't leave. "Come with me," he said, and he stretched his long arms down to pull at John, and then John was also rising, spiraling upwards into his lover's kingdom of air.

* * *

"Are you about to come?" Sherlock wanted to know.

John blinked and looked around. Sherlock was lying on his side in the blackcurrant jelly bed. Positioned as the yin to John's yang, he was staring intently at John's nether regions.

John scrambled upright, moving to cover himself with his hands. His erection softened instantly, deflated by the pin of his partner's sharp gaze.

"Jesus, Sherlock, what? I don't know. No. Can you not stare at me when I'm asleep?"

"You stare at me when I'm asleep," pointed out Sherlock. John didn't ask how he knew that. It seemed like something Sherlock would know.

"That's _different_," said John, though how wasn't immediately obvious.

"Lie down," said Sherlock. "It's my turn to suck you."

"Blow jobs are not, strictly speaking, a turn-based activity. They're not Cluedo. Cripes. Is that why you woke me up? So I wouldn't come without your say-so?"

Sherlock looked mildly hurt.

"Of course not. I woke you up because you've been very specific that you don't want your ejaculate being turned into progeny in the ship's lab. I've found a way around that."

"Which is what, exactly?"

"I'll bring you to completion, and then I'll swallow."

"Oh, God."

"What? It's perfect. The reason the Keplerians want to harvest sperm from you is that they want to know why your DNA isn't establishing itself inside me in grand panda fashion. If you _put_ your DNA inside me by letting me suck you, they can scan me and find it exactly where they expect it, at least in the short term. That ought to satisfy them for a while."

"And the reason you woke me up just then was …"

"Because you dislike it when I sexually overpower you, and I didn't have your consent to swallow your ejaculate as you slept. I couldn't permit you to ejaculate on your stomach, because we don't know when the Keplerians will be back with the cup. You've been very clear that you don't want your sperm to end up in their possession. The only thing to do was prevent you from ejecting any."

"That's … that's good, actually," said John, eyebrows rising in surprise. "Empathetic of you. Ethical, even."

Sherlock glared. "I know it's good."

"No, really. I'm just a bit wound up because I dreamt about you and I haven't got off since the pool and all we ever talk about is fucking and my balls are verging on indigo. Also … what if you swallow and they show up right after and _still_ want sperm in a cup? You know, milking machine and all that? It's going to be difficult for me to give them what they want if you've already made me come."

"Mmm," said Sherlock. His silken voice wrapped itself around John like a dark, enveloping blindfold. "A risk."

"Uh-huh."

"Not safe."

"Yeah."

"Completely inadvisa—"

"Oh, shit," said John, licking his lips. "Do you have to punch all my buttons like that? 'John, it's dangerous. We couldn't possibly. Think of your leg.' Damn it, Sherlock."

"Why wouldn't I resort to that? It works."

John groaned, but he lay back down on the rippling jelly bed nonetheless. "It does," he said. "Do your worst."

* * *

"AhahaHA!" It was ten minutes later, and John was squealing in a fashion unbecoming an officer. He was still no closer to climax, but he was a lot closer to inadvertently kicking Sherlock in the head. "Stop, stop, _stop_."

"John? Whatever are you doing?"

"I'm being tickled half to death, you idiot. Let go."

With the air of long practice, Sherlock removed his hands and slowly held them up where John could see them. John gave himself a mental reminder to ask Sherlock more about his past dealings with law enforcement.

"You gave me to understand you preferred build up. Teasing. It's not as if I have a vast store of memorized foreplay techniques at my disposal."

"So you're what? Trying everything plus the kitchen sink to see what happens?"

As soon as the words left John's mouth, he mentally shook his head. He was. Of course he was.

Sherlock steepled his fingers. John had never seen a person steeple his fingers in mid-air before. Usually there was some kind of desk involved. Sherlock was a grandmaster in contemplative hand gestures.

"If I asked you for a full list of everything that is capable of giving you pleasure," he asked, "would you be able to supply it? Am I to believe that your former partners have hit upon everything that you might enjoy? How very resourceful of them."

"They certainly hadn't done _that_," said John, contemplating the events of a minute previous.

"Then how were you to know that you wouldn't like it? You didn't think you'd like the ear chewing, and you ended up asking for more."

"OK. You wanted to know what I'd like. So you were going through all the possible permutations, yeah? Which naturally led to you grabbing me by the hips, pinning me to the bed, and licking _the backs of my bloody knees_." All of John's crevices were ticklish, and the backs of the knees were no exception.

This summary of events appeared to offend Sherlock's sense of thoroughness. He snorted like an affronted horse. "It wasn't just the knees," he muttered.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Right, yes. I wouldn't want to accuse you of being unsystematic. You did lick pretty much everything else first."

"Necessary," Sherlock proclaimed. "There are variations. The back of your neck tastes like clean laundry: Orkney wool, Marks and Spencer cotton, no silk. Your elbows taste like envelopes — linen rag, handmade, wedding quality, 70 lb. weight. There's a hint of apricot in the bits behind your …"

Sherlock took in the look John was giving him and stopped in his tracks.

"This is how it is for me," he said, quietly. "I want you. I already have a sense of your mind, and now I want a sense of your body. I won't settle for anything less. I want to know the smell of your hair when it's bone dry or soaking wet, and how its scent is affected by all the gradations of humidity in between. I want to know what your scar looks like under black light, sunlight, the infrared from night-vision goggles. I want to taste you in a variety of places and in a variety of emotional states. I want to measure how fast your cuticles grow on your fingers and toes and determine whether there's a difference in the growth rate and why. I want to know everything about you. Are you expecting me to react to you differently? Because I don't think I can."

John put an arm around his partner and pulled him closer. Sherlock leaned into him and allowed his hair to be stroked.

"It's fine," said John. "It's love. I feel it too. It doesn't, um, express itself exactly like that for most people, but it's fine."

"What I did to you just now. The licking. Not good?"

John breathed deeply. "Most of it was _very_ good. Some of it was amazing. And you did stop when I asked you to. It's just that last bit was …"

"Too intimate?"

"Too _ticklish_. Ticklish, Sherlock. Do you understand tickling, or did you empty that from your Mind Palace when you took out the recycling?"

From the look Sherlock was giving him, John could see that ticklishness had gone the way of common courtesy and polyester. If these things had ever taken up space in the Mind Palace, that space had long since been repapered, newly carpeted, and completely refurnished.

"Oh, for heaven's sake." John took the opportunity to further Sherlock's education by pushing him face first into the bed and climbing on top of him. Seated backwards astride his mount, he helped himself to the backs of Sherlock's knees and the soles of his elongated feet.

Sherlock's voice was no less imperious for being muffled by jelly. "I hardly see what you hope to accompli— _ahahoohaHA_, stop, oh God, _stop_."

John slid off and came to rest beside his lover, his still north facing Sherlock's south.

"Truce?" he asked.

Sherlock gazed at him with shrewd, sea glass eyes. "What about my offer?"

* * *

It turned out that John's previous partners had _not_ discovered everything his body might find enjoyable. For example, no one had ever sixty-nined him on a jelly bed.

"Mngh," said John, his mouth full, as Sherlock brought the same level of attention to his cock that he'd previously given his knees.

Sherlock stopped mid-lick. "Don't get me off again," he said, from the vicinity of John's pelvis. "I'm focusing. You're welcome to show me where you want me to put my mouth, but then leave off."

John moved his hand towards his crotch, but Sherlock caught him by the wrist.

"Not your hand. Show me with your tongue."

"Oh? _Oh_." John was on board with this. "Here," he said, then licked the underside of Sherlock's cock once. It was sweetly musky at the base, but tasted different, cleaner, near the head. "Start near my balls and go up."

Sherlock licked him from base to tip. John wriggled.

"What happens if I lick in the other direction?" Sherlock wanted to know. He tried it.

"Good," said John. "Surprising. Teasing. Because it starts off as intense and then backs off. Then it goes back to being intense again."

He neglected to say, "That's not how people usually do it." Sherlock wasn't especially keen on thinking about John with other people, and anyway, the fact that people normally did something was not, to him, a recommendation.

"Your testicles are sensitive," declared Sherlock, who hadn't yet gone to town on them.

"Um, I imagine most blokes' are, yeah."

"I'm not talking about pain, I'm talking about pleasure. You told me to touch mine when I was trying to get off. Inference: that sort of attention arouses you."

"Yeah." John realized Sherlock was asking permission. "Please, don't let me stop you. Have at it."

Sherlock coaxed John's legs further apart, then buried his head between them. John could feel him snuffling about down there. Then there was the warmth and wetness of Sherlock tonguing him along the seam of his ball sack to the delicate skin behind. It felt oddly vulnerable to be spread open like this with another man between his thighs. Major Pike at FOB Keenan — John refused to think of his first name — had been happy to receive oral attention, but not willing to reciprocate.

A lack of willingness was not one of Sherlock's issues in bed. He took one of John's testicles into his inquisitive mouth and sucked on it. When John's body clenched, Sherlock made a noise of discovery, at least so far as the intervening anatomy would permit.

"Wh-what?" managed John.

Sherlock left off sucking and began trailing his fingers experimentally over the seam. "For an experienced man, you haven't had anywhere near as much oral sex as you'd like. This ties in to the fact, already established, that most of your sexual assignations are short-lived. Flings, if you will. While a long-term partner would allow for the luxury of foreplay, most of your partners, perhaps sensing that the relationship would cursory, have been determined to get straight to intercourse."

It was true that women generally preferred fucking John to sucking him, but John wasn't sure how Sherlock had come to that conclusion. "How do you figure?"

"John, look at the size of you. Not to mention the shape. What fling would be willing to settle for having you in his or her mouth?"

John groaned — partly from exasperation, and partly from the pleasure Sherlock was wreaking upon him with his fingers. The man knew how to take liberties. He had left off playing with John's sack and was stroking the cleft of his arse, taking a moment to run his thumb proprietarily over the hole.

"Is this about my oversized knob again? Shit, don't answer that. It is."

Sherlock rubbed a cheekbone against the accoutrement in question. Elsewhere, his thumb made insinuating circles. "'Oversized,' doctor? I'd say 'optimal.'"

John's face felt hot. In fact, a lot of John felt hot. Having his partner's stiff and rather stunning erection at eye level did nothing to mitigate that.

"Ungh. Optimal for what? I thought you didn't know anything about..." Sherlock's busy hands were making it hard to think.

"I don't. But people like novelty, and my memories of boarding school reveal that your dimensions are nothing if not novel. Lavish." Sherlock lowered his voice into the dark register reserved for conspiracy. "Good for getting into hard to reach places," he observed.

Given a cup of tea, John would have spat it out. Without one, he was resigned to coughing up air.

Sherlock raised a triumphant eyebrow. "More sucking?"

"Please," managed John.

Abandoning his experiments with facial frottage, Sherlock took John into his hot, wet, perfectly wicked mouth.

_Good, _thought John._ Glorious. Extraordinary_. Sherlock didn't have practice going for him, but he would put his tongue absolutely anywhere. John wondered how the man had survived years of chemistry experiments. He seemed like the sort of bloke who would lick the spoon. On a vessel devoid of spoons, he would lick John, and he did so with enthusiasm.

He began by lapping at the slit. John twisted his hips, anxious for more contact, and Sherlock gave it to him, suckling sweetly at the tip.

"Oh God," said John. He never wanted to be anywhere else but where he was. He would have new business cards printed up: John Watson, MD, Sherlock Holmes's mouth, constellation of Cygnus, NW 5.67 quadrillion.

John propped himself up on one elbow to watch as Sherlock's mouth moved lower. He gentled John's foreskin with his lips, moving it incrementally back and forth over the purplish head.

_Fuuuuuck_, thought John. Everything felt about a hundred times dirtier when Sherlock did it. John wondered why that was. Perhaps it was because he was still, in some respects, a virgin, and he set John's parthenophilia alight. Or perhaps it was because he was, hands-down, the most gorgeous person John had ever been with. With his dark curls, slim, ivory body, and pomegranate mouth, he was like something off a Greek vase – the raunchy kind, the kind one passed by a few times at the British Museum so as not to be caught staring. It was difficult to look at him and not think of sex. He was just that kind of Rorschach blot.

But mostly, John decided, it was because the man was just so damned engaged. As far as Sherlock was concerned, if something was worth doing, it was worth doing in a fit of mania and possibly while on fire. Most things were not worth doing, and he ignored them, but if he were interested in something, that one thing would command his complete attention.

What interested him at the moment was John. He displayed that interest by flickering his tongue against John's frenulum and hollowing his cheeks.

"Oh God oh God oh _God_," said John. He had tasted Sherlock there too. Obviously, Sherlock had liked it, because he'd committed the move to memory. John thought about Sherlock coming, thought about how he'd sounded during orgasm, and suddenly, maintaining a vigilant posture seemed like too much effort. John collapsed onto his side, offering himself up to the onslaught.

"On your back," said Sherlock, and John obeyed the order. He lay in the concavity of the jelly bed, ready for whatever Sherlock wanted to give him.

Still facing south to John's north, Sherlock climbed over him on all fours, allowing the gleaming tip of his cock to graze John's lips as he did so. John opened his mouth to take it in, but Sherlock raised his hips until he was out of reach.

"_Concentrating_," he said, and buried his face in John's crotch.

The position was tantalizing. Like a man tormented by the gods, John could see everything but reach nothing. He could have raised his head to suck on his partner's bits, but Sherlock's tone of voice had indicated that he was to lie back. So he did, enjoying the overhanging vista and the scent of his lover's arousal. Meanwhile, Sherlock sucked him like a man inspired.

John had sometimes felt unsure about the shape of his equipment. As Sherlock had pointed out, the difference between the girth of the head and the already ample girth of the shaft was noticeable. "Like a baby's arm holding an apple," one of his Army mates had said. All of them, come to think of it.

It was nothing he felt like having a complex over, but he had to admit that his was a dick that looked a bit out of place in the showers. It looked completely at home now. He watched, transfixed, as his slick, shining glans met the answering opulence of Sherlock's lips.

"Mother of _God_," said John. "How do you feel so good? Oh, fuck. You feel marvelous, Sherlock. Fantastic."

For a man who'd never given a blowjob, Sherlock was admirably suited to the task. His lips were plump and well equipped to cushion the shaft. His long throat, its Adam's apple highlighted by a cheeky, delicious mole, was an advertisement for swallowing. John had never seen anyone who looked more magnificent with a cock in his mouth.

_And the moaning_. _Good Lord, the moaning._ Sherlock had the temerity to moan around John's stiffness as though he were the one up to his balls in another man's welcoming body. John had the sense that his lover was not just sucking him, but tasting him. Savoring him. He had said he'd wanted to taste all of John, and he was certainly making progress.

"Talk to me," ordered Sherlock. "Tell me what it feels like."

"Gah," protested John. "What are you stopping for? Keep at it."

"Talk to me, and I will." As a gesture of good faith, Sherlock went back to doing swirly and deliriously pleasurable things with his tongue.

"Brilliant, all right? It feels brilliant. Um. When you go down on me all the way, then come back up again — unf, yeahhh, like that — it feels like sex. Not that it isn't sex, but you know. It feels like fucking." For a man who'd never had intercourse, Sherlock was doing a brilliant job of imitating it. He was all tight, wet heat and sweet, rolling undulations.

The jelly bed had its advantages. Sherlock would go down on John, and the bed would answer with a bit of recoil, forcing John deeper into his mouth. It was heaven.

"I love you," John choked out. He had meant to say, "I'm coming," but Sherlock had short-circuited his wiring for politeness and all he could speak was the truth. "Sherlock. I love you so much."

He was too small a container for the pleasure Sherlock had instilled in him. It was overflowing. He made a strangled sob as it spilled out of him and into his lover's mouth.

"Not a moment too soon," said Sherlock, having swallowed every drop. From the hallway came the unmistakable sound of squidging.

* * *

A/N: This chapter goes out with much affection to Verity Burns. Her "The Road Less Traveled" was what made me want to write fan fiction again. It was, and is, smart, beautiful, poignant, romantic, and incredibly hot. Also, as anyone who's ever met her will tell you, she's just a lovely, lovely person. Happy early birthday, sweetie.

"Pomegranate mouth" and "ivory body" are taken from Oscar Wilde's poem "The Sphinx." I love the way he writes about men. Hell, I love the way he writes about everything.


	13. Catch and Release

**Chapter Thirteen: Catch and Release**

Warnings: Consent issues. Drugs. Bamboo-addled bears.

* * *

To Sherlock's mind, fending off a marauding band of giant lava lamps, each on the lookout for roughly ten milliliters of human sperm, was much like holding the Met at bay as they ineffectively ransacked one's flat for cocaine. Lots of barging in, lots of confusion, and everybody looking in wrong place.

_Idiots_, thought Sherlock, as four scientists tumbled in. The scientist bringing up the rear had tripped and fallen forward, sending his colleagues undulating through the door in an unseemly – and, given the peculiarities of Keplerian anatomy, potentially orgiastic – tidal wave. Sherlock immediately christened the clumsy scientist Plum Fool. He had seen this Keplerian at the previous raid, the one that resulted in John kissing him. The scientist was brash when the situation called for hesitance, and hesitant when the situation called for brashness. It was only the fact that John was devoted to their color-based naming scheme that prevented Sherlock from calling him "Anderson."

Inspecting the pile-up on his floor, Sherlock had a strong sense of dejà-vu. _Almost _exactly_ like a drugs bust_, he thought. The individual that Plum Fool had directly squashed seemed to be the Keplerian analogue of Sally Donovan. Not only did she dislike Sherlock immensely, but she gave the impression of having scuffed-up knees. Remarkably, the fact nature had not seen fit to equip her with joints of any kind did nothing to dull this impression. Sherlock began to think of her, rather uncharitably, as Plum Tart.

Underneath Tart was Plum Crumble, who seemed to be coming apart at the edges, and on the very bottom was Plum Duff, quivering with rage. Even under three other golden layers of gelatinous life form, it was possible to see the shouty, geometrical demands that lit up his middle. He looked like the bottom layer of an extremely angry parfait.

Sherlock's reverie was interrupted by sudden movement from Duff. He oozed out from underneath his underlings and, after taking a moment to reconstitute himself, he was vertical again. Not on his feet, obviously, but right way up on his distinctively ruffled base and headed in John's direction.

Fortunately, Sherlock had devised a devilishly clever system of signals that he could use to coach John on defense the night before. Unfortunately, he had forgot to mention them to John.

"Vatica— oh, bugger. John, get down." When John stared at him, Sherlock pushed him backwards into the deep indentation in the jelly bed. It was the motion of a gardener swatting a tulip bulb into a hole in the dirt in preparation for a harsh winter.

"The hell?" As tulip bulbs went, John was unusually cantankerous.

Sherlock didn't have to hear John sputtering to know he was fuming. He could feel him. The heat rolled off him in waves, gently toasting Sherlock's back. Sherlock steeled himself against it. As a relative newcomer to the ship, John had no idea just how many forms a blobby appendage could take, or all the uses to which it could be put. Sherlock did. It was essential that John, _his_ John, be left untouched by whatever wiggly appurtenances Plum Duff wished to extend in his direction.

"Stay down," said Sherlock. "It's for your own good." Glaring at the company with a murderous eye, he interposed himself between the intruders and his mate.

For those with an interest in audio forensics, the sounds of an annoyed army surgeon righting himself, against orders, on a blackcurrant jelly bed are as follows.

1. Mild vulgarity, as in the sentence, "Excuse me, you complete arse, but which one of us actually has combat training?"

2. The awkward boingulating noises, unbefitting the dignity of an officer, which typically hail from a massively soused adult who has found his way into a bouncy castle full of cake-besmeared toddlers and can't find his way out.

3. More of item one.

4. Rustling, but only if the surgeon in question is clothed and has not knocked his sleep covering on the floor while offering feverish love to a fellow alien abductee. These sounds distinguished themselves largely by their absence.

Sherlock struggled to keep his mind on his task. Diplomacy did not come naturally to him. Had they been back on earth, he would have let John do the talking. As the incident at Hampstead Heath proved, John played well with others. For a while, it had been clear that of the two of them, the Keplerians preferred Sherlock's mate. They would talk to Sherlock, but their shapes would sometimes wander off in John's direction. Even Plum Duff's insistence on taking him back to the lab could be read as a desire to spend more time in his company.

Unfortunately, the man had the vocabulary of a Keplerian infant. He could call their captors by name, express gratitude, say "yes" or "no," and make diligent promises to breed Sherlock with all haste. That was about it.

_I am here for Silver Circle_, said Plum Duff, his middle awash in polygons. _You will ambulate towards the window with your appendages in the air and leave him to me. _

Sherlock made a triangle with his index fingers and thumbs, then shook it for emphasis. _No. Absolutely not._

Nothing but the constraints of Keplerian anatomical linguistics prevented him from saying, "Will I, bollocks." This was an expression he had picked up from John. John knew a lot about anatomy. Medical school had seen to that.

Sherlock was actually relieved to find Olive Hexagon, their officer contact, marching in the door. He was marshaling great platoons of geometric shapes across his middle, demanding to know what was going on.

"What's he say?" John wanted to know.

"John, not now."

"Yes, now. I can't follow."

"John, you exasperate me," said Sherlock, already tightly wound due to the stress of the negotiations. "You … you _fidget_ me beyond endurance. Look at the context! What would an officer of the law say under these circumstances?"

"I don't know! ''Ello, 'ello, 'ello, what's all this then?'"

"Yes."

"What, really?"

"Yes!"

Plum Duff was already complaining to Olive Hexagon. _You know why I am here. These bipeds have produced no offspring. Silver Circle's seed is malfunctioning. Since he has not successfully planted it in the body of his mate, he will come with me now to the lab, where I will relieve him of it. _

_You will do no such thing_, said Sherlock. He shook his finger-triangle adamantly.

Oh thought this over. _Yes_, he signed. The umber square indicating assent slowly materialized in his center, then slowly blinked out. This looked like regret.

_When did I start thinking of them as "he" and "she"?_ Sherlock wondered. _Right: after John started calling them that._

This was what Sherlock got for being locked up with a short, attractive man who insisted on using illogical sexed pronouns for virtually everything but the bed. It was definitive: John was colonizing his brain, annexing portions of it for his own nefarious purposes. Sherlock had let him into the Mind Palace, and now he was making himself at home. No longer content to lounge around on the mind settee, he was hanging up ugly jumpers and regrouting the shower.

_We have been patient, Plum Cross, _Oh continued,_ but you cannot stop us in this. The breeding project requires viable material from both partners. _

As much as Sherlock would have liked to interrogate Oh on the scope and purpose of the Keplerian breeding project, it was necessary first and foremost to protect his slight, bristling partner.

_Go ahead, _said Sherlock. _Investigate his … output if you like, but you are looking in the wrong place._ _It is not inside him._ _He does not have it._

_Enough of your games_, snapped Plum Duff. For a scientist, it was spectacularly slow on the uptake._ If he does not have it, where is it?_

It was extraordinary, the lack of creativity employed by the average denizen of the Milky Way. Did anyone ever, _ever_, look behind the cow skull for the cocaine? No. Everyone always went straight to the microwave, straight to the easiest spot to check, despite the fact that Sherlock had already made it clear that that was where he kept the eyeballs, and cocaine on an eyeball was a waste of good cocaine.

"Busts," said Sherlock disgustedly, abandoning his finger shapes. "Raids. They never change. Neither do those in charge of conducting them. From one end of the galaxy to the other: morons and sub-morons, one and all."

Eyeless, the assembled scientists nonetheless stared, their geometric shapes frozen in place.

"It's here," said Sherlock. He fashioned John's signature circle from his thumb and index finger and placed it triumphantly over his stomach. This done, he tossed a quick, proud look over his shoulder at his mate.

"Ohhhh, God," muttered John, going slightly pink around the ears. He had correctly interpreted the hand gesture as indicating where the bulk of his reproductive fluids had ended up. "That's it, then. Here we go."

_Is this true?_ Oh asked.

_Of course it's true_, crowed Sherlock._ Scan me. Go on, scan me. He has taken me for his own. You will find me awash in him. _

_This is foolish_, said Plum Duff._ I am not convinced this biped even knows how his species reproduces. He is more ignorant than the pandas. It is no wonder that on their home planet, four-legged pandas sit in luxury and gluttonous contentment while their miserable two-legged servants …_

_Your pejoratives are unnecessary_, chided Oh. _The human cannot help his limited number of appendages any more than a polygon can grow more sides. Nor can he change his place in the social order. Are you going to complete your task or not? Scan him. _

Sherlock grinned. The superior officer had just pulled rank.

Vibrating with undisguised and, thanks to its anatomy, undisguisable annoyance, Plum Duff allowed its middle to erupt forth with a new protuberance. It looked like a rotating showerhead on a flexible stalk. It slithered towards Sherlock's abdomen.

John sprang from the bed. He landed on his feet beside Sherlock like a small, furious gymnast fresh from the pommel horse. "The fuck does he think he's doing?"

"He's scanning your DNA here so that he doesn't have to scan it elsewhere," said Sherlock, pointedly. "Don't mess this up."

Umber light streamed out of Plum Duff's showerhead and onto Sherlock's bare stomach. After a moment, umber dots flowed back up the stalk and into the scientist's middle, where they coalesced into an image of a human sperm cell. The huddled analysts considered this. Next, the appendage bathed Sherlock's abdomen in an olive light. Pixels in the same shade marched resolutely up the stalk and formed an image of a chromosome on Duff's internal screen while Plum Crumble chattered with excitement. Finally, Plum Duff probed the area just above Sherlock's abs with a light that matched the color of his own crowning pentagon. This resulted in a purplish image of a double helix where the murky green chromosome had been.

Sherlock was glad the plum light had been saved for last. The color had always been flattering to his porcelain skin.

When the scientists had finished observing, the helix devolved into a fine umeboshi mist. It dispersed into the far reaches of Plum Duff's body until it could no longer be seen.

_Well?_ asked Oh.

Sherlock had wondered what grudging admission of defeat would look like in Keplerians. Now he watched it make itself known via a slow parade of shapes across Duff's middle. These were in washed out colors and a wavering font.

_It is as he says_, reported Plum Duff._ He is awash in Silver Circle's mark._

"Exactly," said Sherlock, signing rapidly. "I believe you'll find John's workmanship exceedingly thorough. Now if you'll excuse us, you're interrupting the post-coital pampering that is my due as the expectant father."

"Your due as what?" John chimed in. "If there were a baby, which there isn't, we would _both_ be the expec– bloody hell. It's a lost cause, isn't it? Of course you get the pampering. Of course. For fuck's sake. Tell Oh I've created a monster."

"Excellent, John. Make a good show of it. It's more convincing that way." Mindful of his audience, Sherlock began signing in an aggrieved fashion. "You should have thought of that before you destroyed my youthful figure by rendering me gravid, you insatiable brute."

"Right, yes, you're enjoying this far too much. Tell Plum Duff to put that thing back in his pants or wherever he keeps it. I don't like him pointing it at you."

Giddy about having public proof that part of John was inside him, Sherlock gladly conveyed this, and a bit more besides.

_My mate, who, it may interest you to know, holds the rank of hexagon on our home planet, says to put that away_, he said.

_Or what? _Plum Duff wanted to know_. _Sherlock had slighted his class. His crowning pentagon quivered with annoyance.

_Or_, said Sherlock, recalling an earthling taunt popular in primary school,_ he will put it away for you. _

* * *

"Call me crazy, but I don't think you should have thwacked it like that."

From his perch on the side of the jelly bed, Sherlock yawned and stretched. "You're crazy," he droned. "It needed thwacking."

John cracked his neck. "You do know that your mouth has a tendency to write checks that I can't necessarily cash?"

"Of course you can. You can take care of yourself, remember? It stands to reason that you can also take care of me."

"Yes, well, you may not have noticed this, but I'm relatively easy to take care of. Taking care of you is a tall order. Especially if you're going to just haul off and smack random appendages because you're, I don't know, bored."

"I wasn't bored, and the appendage wasn't random. Plum Duff came in here with every intention of 'examining' you with it. Well. That will slow him down for a while."

"Honestly, Sherlock. This is not the 19th century, and I don't need you fighting duels for my honor. You don't need to go around slapping everyone in the face with a velvet glove."

"John, as far as they can tell, I'm pregnant. They think I'm out of my mind on hormones. In light of the forthcoming happy event, they _expect_ erratic behavior from me, and they expect protective rages from you. I love it!"

John rubbed his chin. "You're out of your mind, all right. What was that discussion you had with Oh at the end? You must have been at it for half an hour."

Sherlock caught his lower lip between his teeth, then released it.

"Yes. I was going to tell you about that."

"Tell me what?"

"It's about us. And him. And Ut. And, you know. Getting off this ship."

"That's wonderful!"

"Ye-ess. And no."

"What do you mean, no? What's the catch?"

Sherlock tented his long fingers.

"He has a proposal," he said.

* * *

A/N: In "The Adventure of the Dying Detective," Holmes tells Watson, "You fidget me beyond endurance. You, a doctor — you are enough to drive a patient into an asylum. Sit down, man, and let me have my rest!" Something about this makes me wild with glee. Is it the use of "fidget" as a transitive verb? Is it the idea of Watson doing pretty much anything to Holmes "beyond endurance"? Is it Holmes's reference to his invariably precarious mental state? Darned if I know, but I love that passage.

Thanks to my friend IKEA girl for inventing the word "boingulating." She uses it to describe the motion of a tangled telephone cord on a landline.


	14. Resistance

**Chapter Fourteen: Resistance**

Warnings: I feel I should mention that there are not enough references to sex in this chapter. Also, there are too many references to drugs and one reference to Weetabix.

* * *

"Right," said John, incredulously. "What's he want? Advice on his wardrobe? A rugby fan to round out his team for quiz night?"

"Hardly," said Sherlock.

"Then I'm at a loss. I don't know if you've noticed this, but we're a million kilometers from home. We don't have much to bargain with. I mean, I had rather a nice RAMC mug, but I seem to have left it back at the flat."

Sherlock looked genuinely curious. "Were there _any_ hard science requirements to get into medical school when you applied? We're 600 lightyears out. That makes a million kilometers look like a stroll along Canary Wharf."

"Doesn't negate my original argument. If anything, it backs it up. If Oh's offering us a ticket home, he must want something big in return, and all we have is us." John frowned. "Jesus. _That_ better not be it."

"What?"

"No offense. I like him, I really do, but I hope he's not looking for, you know. A special night out."

Sherlock pondered his fingernails. "A night _in_, I would have thought. More oxygen that way. Necessary for bodily movement."

"Eugh. I know this is probably lost on you, but now would be a good time to say something reassuring."

"You know, the gold in your hair _is_ very compatible with Keplerian standards of masculine beauty."

"_Sherlock_."

"Relax. Despite your personal charms, I've yet to meet a large, wobbly column of protoplasm who fancies you. I wouldn't worry about your Three Continents status getting an upgrade just yet."

"This brings us back to question A. What the hell does he want? Because I don't care who pulls strings around here. They're not getting a troop of blue-eyed, curly-headed octuplets."

Sherlock looked like a herbivore who'd just been presented with a unexpected bouquet. Pleased, wary, and not sure whether to sniff it or eat it.

_Oh shit_, thought John, not for the first time.

"John. You gave our prospective offspring my hair. That's …"

"Um. Sorry? Sorry." John could see he'd hit a nerve. "I didn't mean to start talking about our imaginary …"

Sherlock's voice, which had been rumbling on, trailed off. He shook his head, like a dog shaking off a dream of fields and rabbits.

"Imaginary. You were being rhetorical. Of course. Let's move on, shall we?"

John wanted to rise to the occasion, but his Y chromosome was not exactly helping. He was too male and possibly too English to be having this particular conversation this early in the day. He had no understanding of Keplerian time, but however early it was, it was clearly Too Early. In fact, it was probably a quarter 'til Too Early. They could talk about it later.

"All right," said John.

Maybe there was a flight component mixed in with his fight instinct after all.

* * *

"It's complicated," Sherlock muttered.

"I know you think I found my degree in a stale box of Weetabix, but try me."

Sherlock took in a deep breath, then let it out quickly. John felt a stab of tenderness. He'd had a sudden mental image of a teenaged Sherlock at university, blowing disgruntled smoke rings over a Bunsen burner while the rest of the students were home on Christmas break.

"Keplerian society is at a crossroads."

"Go on."

"The culture is highly stratified. For a Keplerian, work and personal life are largely dictated by rank. You'll have noticed that each Keplerian acts in accordance with the rank symbolized by his or her crowning polygon. More sides mean greater status and power."

"Of course I've bloody noticed. I was in the Army. You don't waltz around Afghanistan for two years not knowing a stripe from a star."

"And yet. In the Army, a stripe may become a star over time. It's possible to rise up the chain of command. Here, no. It's a rigid hierarchy, and Olive Hexagon finds himself chafing against it. As does Umber Triangle, our captor."

"Captor? That's a bit harsh. He's more like a friendly landlady who watches too many soaps. Or a housekeeper. A pervy one."

"Keeper, then. In both the 'house-' and 'zoo-' senses. Although the word he uses to describe himself is 'Watcher.'"

John had the distinct impression that he was trapped in a bad _Highlander _sequel. It was either that or Middle Earth.

"Does he mean 'Watcher' as in the Tolkien thing with the tentacles?" he wanted to know. "Because I would have thought that was the squid thing next door. You know, the one who bangs on the wall when he wants us to pipe down."

"Toll what? Speak English. Italian, perhaps. French. Urdu. I'm not fluent in gibberish."

John took a moment to assess his lot in life.

"I'm shacked up with someone with no knowledge of Tolkien," he concluded. "Tolkein? J.R.R.? Wrote about little people. You'd love him. He'd give you a sense of importance."

"John, put your love of sensational literature to one side and focus. Our own lives and the fate of the Keplerian Resistance hang in the balance."

"Resistance?" repeated John, slipping into tactical mode. "Who's spearheading it? Olive Hexagon, it sounds like. Umber Triangle's in, I'm sure of that. Those two are a package deal. What resources do they have? What are they up against? Who else is involved?"

"Umber Triangle and Olive Hexagon. That's it. As of today, the two of them are fighting to disrupt social control."

"As of _today_. Today, mind you. I'm all for getting out of here, but I'm not sure that's the sort of long-term, reliable commitment that we ought to be risking our lives over."

"We're not going to find any other sort of commitment. Keplerians, particularly high-caste Keplerians, have trouble keeping their thoughts to themselves. How do you keep a secret when it's broadcast across your abdomen like a cola ad in Piccadilly Circus? You pretty much have to hold a sheet in front as though you're heading to do the laundry and hope for the best. Even that won't throw others off the scent for long. If a heretical idea is to be put into practice, it must be done quickly, before there's time for anyone else to stop it."

"And today's heretical idea is?"

"Sex. Ut and Oh would like to have it."

"Of course. Sex. That's all it ever is on this ship. It can't be a round of paintball or a Bond night; it's got to be sex. It's like tea back home, isn't it? Something that takes five minutes to put together and shows up at least eight times a day. Anyway, if Ut and Oh want to get an appendage over, who's stopping them? I thought Keplerians were quite liberal about sex."

"Yes and no."

"The engineering crew put on an orgy to welcome you on board. Can we put that down as a 'yes'? How about Tart copping a feel when she and Fool fell through the door just now? Because none of that looked like no."

"Keplerians are liberal about sex when it takes place between one or more members of a single caste. Tart, Fool, Crumble, Duff, and the engineering crew are all Pentagons, so they meet basic criteria for sexual melding. Umber Triangle and Olive Hexagon don't."

"Oh, right. It's all fun and games until somebody's got a pointier shape in their noggin, and then the chastity belts come out. That makes sense. Here's what I'm missing: how the hell is it anyone else's business?"

"It's _everyone's_ business. Keplerian bodies contain shapes. These shapes are what they use to think, to speak, to transmit ideas. They're what words are for us, with one major difference: these shapes are transmitted during sex. That's all well and good when you have scientists sleeping with other scientists. Their specialized knowledge and vocabulary stay within their own pool, their own caste. But what would happen if an individual were to become intimate with someone from a caste markedly different from their own? The class knowledge each individual possessed would leak out, and the castes would no longer be stable. It would be a threat to the entire social order."

"So you're saying that if I were a Keplerian janitor, say, and I slept with the Keplerian Alan Turing, I'd come away with the knowledge of how to crack Enigma."

"You might. It depends on what shapes he transferred into your body during the process. I don't think Keplerians have control over what shapes escape them during sex any more than you're in charge of which specific sperm cells to emit when I've got my mouth on you. It's random."

"Is Keplerian speech really that different from caste to caste?"

"Yes. Keplerians understand members of their own rank best. For one thing, there's the question of vocabulary. There are ideas that Ut, for example, cannot have, because he doesn't have the necessary shapes. You'll notice, for example, that there are no hexagons in his body. If Olive Hexagon were to sleep with him, Umber Triangle might very well obtain some hexagons. He'd be able to say new things, think new thoughts, perform new actions. Some of his new thoughts might be militaristic in nature."

"What's in it for Olive Hexagon?"

"Sentiment."

"He feels that? I mean, Umber Triangle strikes me as feeling it, but I never noticed it in Oh. It's not like all his shapes run over to one side, like they do with Ut."

"Oh's an officer. He's less effusive. Nevertheless, he experiences an internal vibration at a particular frequency when Umber Triangle is around. Ut feels the same way. It's apparently very pleasant. However, both parties stand to benefit linguistically and intellectually from the exchange. For example, after sex, Olive Hexagon may be able to read the thoughts of lower-ranking Keplerians with much more accuracy than ever before."

"Why can't he read them now? Vocabulary too simple?"

"No. I think it's a matter of font."

"Font."

"Yes."

"You're joking."

"I rarely joke. You'll remember that when the reinforcements came sailing in, they all spoke in a larger font than Ut does. The shapes on the center screens in their abdomens, the shapes they use to think and communicate, were physically larger than anything you'd seen before. You told me later it looked like shouting, like forceful speech. You were essentially right."

"I wish I had my phone here. I'd record you saying that and then play it back to you at 3:00 am."

"Each caste has its own font size. You'll recall that the priest, a Square, spoke in larger polygons than Ut, a Triangle. The scientifically minded Pentagons spoke in larger polygons still. Olive Hexagon had the largest communicative polygons of anyone. It's easy for those in the Triangle caste to see what the higher-ups are saying, but difficult for the higher-ups to take notice of the speech of those on the bottom."

"I see. It's like how we're able to read a billboard, but it's hard for us to read fine print. Too small."

"Very much like fine print. Even if we're physically able to read it, we often don't. Inattentional blindness. We don't think it's relevant to us, and we don't make the effort. We screen it out. Meanwhile, the Triangles are walking around with the equivalent of 20/5 vision. In human terms, they see and hear everything. They just have very little power to put the information to use."

"And those on top have power, but less access to information about conditions on the ground." John chewed his lower lip. "It's like basic training. Not that I did basic training. I came in as an officer. But it's the same principle."

"Explain."

"OK, say you've got a private and a sergeant attached to the same platoon. Who knows more about whom? Who's 100% alert to whose likes and dislikes? The private. He has to be. The sergeant can make his life hell. The private had better know what the sergeant wants before the sergeant does, or he's going to regret it. Not that sergeants are particularly subtle."

"Unless they're talking to someone who outranks them. Someone like you."

"Yeah. I suppose it's the reason you work with the homeless network when you need information. You need people who see everything. Troops on the ground. People like Ut."

Sherlock inclined his head in agreement. "The best informants are those who see without being seen themselves. A street person will notice a banker much more closely than the banker will notice the street person. Low-status individuals know much more about high-status individuals than vice-versa. Survival demands it."

"What about you?"

"What about me."

"You're not exactly homeless. You're the poshest git I ever met. You've been here for months, and you're still traipsing around in Dolce and Gabbana on the days you bother to get dressed. How is it that you see ... oh."

"What?"

"Your observational skills. You didn't pick them up at Eton." John hesitated. "Your social status. As you say, it's complicated. Your family is wealthy, with a huge social network, but you don't take advantage of it. You have trouble relating to people."

"I have trouble relating to _idiots_. If that's a failing, I'll take it."

"Didn't say it was. Speaking of which, I'm not a psychiatrist, but I wouldn't be surprised if you had a mood disorder."

"Sociopathy is a personality disorder."

"I know, and you don't have it. Mood. Some of the time you're slumped over in a stupor, some of the time you're bouncing off the walls and annoying the mollusk. You may be bipolar. I don't have anything against that, but it's stigmatized. Just like IV drug use is."

"I wasn't exclusively IV. I was flexible."

"Nevertheless. You're used to having to observe, because being able to observe is what kept you several steps ahead of the police. You got so good at it, you made it your job. Without it, you would have been locked up some time ago. Umber Triangle is like that. He sees. And if Olive Hexagon were to … team up with him, he'd see too?"

"I don't know. Neither do they. In recorded history, there's no instance of a Keplerian sleeping with someone three ranks above or below. It just isn't done. There are rumors that a tiny number of Keplerians have had dalliances with the help over the years, but there's never been a difference of more than one rank between the participants. Olive Hexagon once knew a priest who fell in love with the Watcher who was his gardener. It was a huge scandal in the Church. The two of them disappeared ages ago. Nobody's ever seen them again."

John ran an ambivalent hand through his hair. Looking for solidity, it came to rest at the back of his neck.

"So," he said. "This still doesn't explain what they want from us."

"I'm getting to that," said Sherlock. His eyes were pale and sharp. John didn't find the glint in them comforting.


	15. John Makes a Discovery

**Chapter Fifteen: John Makes a Discovery**

* * *

"OK, I get that Triangle alien plus Hexagonal alien potentially equals super-alien," said John. "Possibly one able to manipulate the controls in the transportation room and bring an unjust society to its knees. But our _room_?"

"Obvious."

"Not to me it's not. Why do they want to use _our_ room? I mean, I'm open to that, anything for a friend, and I do think of Ut as a friend. Olive Hexagon too, I suppose. But it's not at all clear why they want it. Does the bed rotate? Is there some kind of mirror thing that comes out of the ceiling that we haven't figured out to activate yet? Don't tell me, there's something you can do with the wall sconces to make them play Barry White."

"First of all, the idea that there's anything in the room that I haven't learned how to operate is preposterous, and second, why would anyone need a mirror to have sex?" Sherlock was not even going to get into the question of Barry White.

"Some people find that, er, stimulating."

"Really," said Sherlock, marshaling up his darkest voice. It was fun to use the dark voice on his mate. John almost always licked his lips in response.

"I still don't see why they need to use our room," said John, once he had regained control of his tongue. He seemed mildly annoyed to be part of a Pavlovian saliva experiment. "They could fuck anywhere."

"Not anywhere, surely."

"Yes, anywhere. Sherlock, this whole ship is a shaggorium. Didn't you get treated to a front-row seat at an orgy your first week here? With engineers, no less? You may not realize this, but engineers are not widely considered to be the Casanovas of the professional world. If you can count on abstinence anywhere, it's usually that department."

"You're exaggerating. It's not as though there's sex all over the ship."

"Yes, there is. We were sent to a pool that you specifically told me was for tidying up after sex, and what was going on in it? More sex. Loud, thrashing, tidal wave-causing sex. There's no escaping it around here. So what makes our room the best venue for this?"

"John, what color are our walls?"

"What sort of question is that? I don't know, they're a dark … oh. _Oh._ They're opaque. Nobody else has opaque walls." Sherlock could see John mentally running through the parts of the ship that he'd glimpsed so far: cleansing pool, transportation room, infirmary, the halls, the homes of fellow zoo residents. "Why do we have opaque walls?"

"I asked for an upgrade."

"And they gave it to you."

"Yes."

"Why does that not surprise me? From everything you've told me about your life on earth, nobody has any idea how _not_ to give you things. 'Here, Sherlock, have a cut-rate flat in NW1.' 'Sherlock, take some free food in case you ever decide to eat something.' 'Sherlock, have some human ears. Go on, they're on the house.'"

Sherlock found it difficult not to feel flattered by John's rather optimistic assessment of his personal charisma. He gave a shy smile, considered how ridiculous it must look on his craggy face, then swallowed it.

"The Keplerians told me some time ago that the arrival of my mate was imminent. I parlayed that into a series of improvements for the flat. Bigger window. More extensive lighting. Better walls." Sherlock lowered his voice. "More resilient bed."

John stopped licking his upper lip and actually bit it. "The walls," he said, struggling to maintain focus. "You told them I wouldn't have sex with you with an audience."

Sherlock nodded. "I wanted to be able to conduct my experiments with plants in private. I didn't reference you specifically. I hadn't met you. I couldn't have known about your attitudes on public sex."

"For the last time, sex in a shrub on Hampstead Heath does _not_ qualify as public. Have you _seen_ the shrubs there? They're monumental. I once found a whole Tudor-style loo in one, complete with a bay window and a shingled roof."

"Did you." Sherlock was still feeling prickly about John's forays into casual romance. "How very resourceful of you."

John scratched his nose, pondering. "I suppose that if you're right about Keplerian culture, they don't really need walls for the same reasons we do. OK, they might use them for structure or for containment …"

"Of course I'm right. Humans use walls to create privacy. Keplerians don't. Contentious information is contained on a caste-by-caste basis, not an individual one. Barring extraordinary circumstances, someone like Ut doesn't need to hide behind walls. He's already largely concealed from those outside his caste and transparent to everyone in it."

"Right then. Ut and Oh want to use our room. I don't see a problem with that. I mean, we'll be accessories to a crime …"

"Not just any crime. Treason. That's what revolution is called if it's not successful."

"I get that. Still, it's something they want, and they should be allowed to do it. If we can offer them some protection while they … make the change, we should. Is there anything else they want?"

"Oh thinks our weapons will be of use. Also, Ut wants to us to be present for the bonding ceremony. Sentiment."

John's jaw seemed to have come loose. Sherlock waited for him to reposition it.

"Wait, wait, wait. High-speed rewind. Weapons?"

"And sentiment. Yes."

"Sherlock, what weapons?"

"_Our_ weapons," repeated Sherlock, with what was, for him, unusual patience. "Really, John. What do you think I do all day? Clean the flat? Run a feather duster over the wainscoting?"

"Clearly not," said John, his eyes darting around at the general disorder. He had often asked how it was that a man with roughly three possessions had turned the room into such a tip. "What's the plan? Are you going to bonk someone in the jelly with a floor lamp?"

"Won't work. The non-Newtonian viscosity of Keplerian jelly makes it highly resistant to stress. Under ordinary circumstances, it possesses many of the characteristics of liquid, but attacking it with any degree of force turns it solid. You've already seen Ut at his most fluid."

"Yeah," said John. "First time we kissed. There are still bits of him in the carpet."

The thought of kissing John sent a whisper of lust up the back of Sherlock's thighs.

"Correct. But when I thwacked Plum Duff, he was hard to the touch. Mind you, given our brief experiences with the MPs, I believe some Keplerians are able to change phase at will. You might hit an officer and break your hand, or you might try to land a punch and go right through him."

"Ah. Offense or defense. They can box, or they can do judo." John frowned. "What are you making weapons from? All you have is pants, a pair of trousers, and a shirt that shows off both your nipples anytime you're in direct light."

Sherlock rolled his eyes clockwise at John's description of his wardrobe. He usually rolled them counterclockwise, but it was important to mix things up now and again to keep the muscles limber. It was the same reason that he sometimes raised his right eyebrow at John, sometimes his left. He was ambi-supercilious.

"Obviously, the Keplerians are impervious to garroting, so the trousers are useless, but my shirt, which, regardless of what you're implying, is not so much flimsy as _silky_, is imbued with dye containing several ingredients that may be toxic to Keplerian life. Their effects, if amplified…"

"Sherlock Holmes, tell me you're not going to poison the ship with your shirt."

"No! Have you been paying any attention whatsoever? This is my favorite shirt."

"What then?" said John. "Is it something in the room? The flooring? The soup? Me? The plants?"

"John, why do you persist on asking these things? First of all, you're safer not knowing, because the Keplerians will see you don't know it and they won't try to force it out of you. Second, despite my best efforts, you're likely to figure it out anyway. Unlike most people, you do figure things out."

"Thank y—"

"Eventually."

"I withdraw my thanks. Is it the soup?"

Sherlock gave his best impassive stare.

"Shit," said John. "I knew it."

Sherlock made plans to perfect a new stare. John was getting used to this one.

* * *

"A wedding. Jaysus, Mary and Joseph. We're having a wedding here. Hurry up and get dressed." John had made himself a formal toga out of his sleep covering and was bustling around the room in it, trying to clean the place up. This was typical of their varying approaches to locomotion. When stressed, John bustled. In similar circumstances, Sherlock strode around majestically. John called this "flouncing."

Sherlock languidly eased himself into his much maligned shirt. "It's not exactly a wedding. Weddings can be reversed by ritual. This will involve physical changes in both participants. It can't be reversed."

"Bonding, then." John eyed a lopsided floor lamp critically, then carted it over to the window. Then he brought over another lamp and placed it about six feet apart from the first. He seemed to be thinking of ripping his toga in half and making a matrimonial canopy with it.

"You don't need to make preparations for them," observed Sherlock. "They have everything they need."

"I know, but it's a question of respect." John positioned himself between the two lamp poles and looked out at the flickering stars. "Here. If they're OK with it, the priest can stand here."

"What priest?"

"They're not having a priest?"

"Of course not. Why would there be a priest at a public shagging? Priests don't have sex."

John rubbed a hand over his face. "I don't know what amazes me more: the things you know or the things you don't."

"Thank you."

"Not, strictly speaking, a compliment." John peered into one of the pans by the window. "Once you've got the rest of your clothes on, pick up your soup. We have guests coming. I'm not having weapons out in the open."

Sherlock snorted. "Says the soldier."

"'Says the soldier' is right. Have you ever killed anyone?"

Sherlock contemplated his landlady's late, unlamented husband, a casualty of quality detective work and the Florida state penal system. "Not directly."

"I have, and I'd just as soon avoid it going forward." John picked up a pan and shook it. "Is this salt?"

"Of course it's salt."

"You've been separating it out of our food. What's the mechanism here? How are you going to use salt as an agent of mass destruction? Add it to the water system and kill everyone with high blood pressure? Because that's a pretty slow method if you ask me."

"Not answering," muttered Sherlock, putting on his pants.

"Sorry, habit. I'm used to dealing with adults. OK. Salt is necessary to us, which is why the Keplerians have been putting it in our soup. Keeps our electrolytes balanced. However, Keplerians are mostly made out of water, right? Also, their skins are very permeable, which is what allows them to exchange shapes during sex. If you salt a creature with thin skin and a very high water content – a slug, say – they die of dehydration. You've found a way to cause death via osmosis."

"Excellent."

"Excellent but wrong?"

"No, excellent and right. You've outdone yourself."

John did not seem cheered by this. Sherlock watched as he ran a hand over their window, checking for dust.

"You've already cleaned that bit. Twice. What's the problem?"

"The problem is that I don't want you killing anyone without a good reason, and it's not at all clear what your reasons are, OK? You've been working on your salt project for weeks. Long before Ut and Oh brought up revolution. Why would …"

"You," interrupted Sherlock, pulling on his trousers.

"Me what?"

"You _you_. Do you think I've been making weapons for myself? I'm perfectly happy here. I'm making weapons for you."

"Why?"

Sherlock pulled up his zip. He was glad he'd finished getting dressed. Trousers were the key to majestic striding.

"You're my _mate," _he said, pacing back and forth_. "_I have to provide for you, supply you with what you want. Even if what you want is to leave the ship, and by extension, me. Look, it's very simple. You want to go back to earth, and the Keplerian authorities want to keep you here. Therefore, I need a method of coercion at my disposal. You can't just use salt, by the way. Salt alone won't cling to Keplerian flesh. You need a base, something sticky."

"Which is why you keep taking plants out of the wall sconces," said John, slowly.

"Yes. They grow back, and in the meantime, I have my base."

John shook his head. "So you're making the Keplerian equivalent of napalm. A dangerous chemical plus something that keeps it on the body."

"I'm not planning on setting it on fire. I left my lighter in my other trousers."

"Thank heavens for small mercies. Listen, can you not do anything drastic without talking to me first? I know you think you're doing this for me, but I still think there's room for diplomacy. I don't want you going off half-cocked."

The door to their room turned transparent. There was no time to make promises. Nor was there time for Sherlock to point out that he was inevitably fully cocked.

"They're here," he said.

* * *

A/N: The toga reference is a tip of the hat to "Infamia" by thisisforyou and Mr. CSI. I wanted a gladiator!John /emperor!Sherlock story but didn't know enough about ancient Rome to write it. They did. The resulting WIP is amazing. Everything I know about Roman gladiatorial ranks – and undergarments – I've learned from that fic.


	16. Bond

**Chapter Sixteen: Bond**

John thought that Umber Triangle had never looked more radiant.

"Look at him," he said to Sherlock. "He's practically glowing."

"He _is_ glowing," said Sherlock impatiently, as John signed the happy couple's names with his fingers and welcomed them into the room. "Four hundred lumens, give or take. Oh's only at about two hundred – he's more the strong, silent type. The increase in bioluminescence is a sign that they're ready to bond."

Ut and Oh were both decorated for the occasion. In honor of his partner, Olive Hexagon had sent a garland of his internal triangles to the top of his body, where they formed an umber wreath around his crowning hexagon. Lacking internal hexagons, Ut could not reciprocate, but he had procured some olive-colored powder and dusted himself with it.

"Would you like the bed?" asked John, gesturing towards it in what he hoped was an inviting way. "Sorry, we don't really have that many places to sit."

Chairs were not a Keplerian requirement. The aliens were naturally soft, and if they bent in two, they could sit on themselves. As a human, John had no such advantage. There were times when, wanting a cozy perch by the window, he simply sat on Sherlock. Never mind that Sherlock's clothed body, when its pole-like limbs were arranged in the cross-legged, steeple-handed position that was a particular favorite with him, looked and felt like a half-pitched tent.

"Not necessary," said Sherlock. And indeed, Ut and Oh seemed determined to make their own accommodations. Once greetings and five-ringed gratitude had been conveyed – John had to nudge Sherlock in the shin with his foot to get him to participate – the Keplerians set about building a bonding bower in the corner of the room.

The two humans sat down on the cushiony rim of their sleep nest and watched as Oh created an impromptu appendage, then gently stroked the window with it. He looked like a sea anemone on a date. The window shivered, then bent gracefully outward at his touch. Within a few minutes, Oh had created an alcove that bulged out from the side of the ship. John couldn't help but notice that it was large enough to shelter two adult Keplerians – standing up, lying down, or in a variety of amorous sprawlings.

Sherlock groaned. "I warned against the bay window. Sticks out from the side of the ship. Completely over-the-top. Bound to be noticed."

"Shhh," said John. "How's he doing that? That's amazing."

"Ship's made of the same substance they are. Oh's able to tap into the ship for a moment and give it directions with his body. It's as if you had a heart transplant. Your body would tell the foreign heart what to do."

John goggled. "If he can do all that, why can't he make opaque walls?"

"If you can tell a foreign heart to beat, why can't you tell it to make toast? Oh's only wired up to give the ship certain instructions concerning mating. He's able to ask it to make a bonding area for himself and Ut. That's about it."

Oh continued to stroke the window. Under his ministrations, it visibly thickened. A puddle of thick, clear, colorless material began to flow out of it and onto the floor of the alcove. Ut bent down and patted the material. It firmed up and began to take on some of his own coloring. When he was done, it looked like an enormous mango flan.

"That'll be the bed, then," said John. He expected to get a sharp look for stating the obvious, but Sherlock inclined his woolly head in agreement.

Ut stood back, his work finished. While his center screen was blank, a number of peripheral shapes pressed themselves against the side that Olive Hexagon was on. They seemed to be quivering slightly.

John figured out how to articulate something he'd been mulling over for a while. "The shapes in the middle," he said. "Words and thoughts, yeah? I finally figured out what the other shapes are, the ones on the edges. I thought at first that they were just ones that weren't currently being used for communication. You know, extras. Reserves. They're not. They're emotions."

Sherlock waved off this suggestion with an elegant hand. "Not important."

"Really. 'Not important.'"

"Literally and figuratively peripheral. Haven't given them much thought."

John pawed his own face. It was a substitute for pawing Sherlock's.

"_How_ have you not given this much thought? Don't you want to know what they're on about? What if they're like us? You know what they say – at least half of human communication is nonverb—"

"The rubbish half," interrupted Sherlock. "Irrelevant."

"Bloody hell," said John, taking in his lover's lack of interest. It was the sort of attitude that would have driven him mad a few weeks previous, but he was beginning to get used to Sherlock. "That settles it. They're emotions, all right."

Sherlock made a noise of companionable disgruntlement. It sounded like "Mmph." John leaned against him but was too late to feel the baritone rumble go through him.

Olive Hexagon squidged around the perimeter of the donut nest. He appeared to be inspecting it for suitability as a bonding site. Umber Triangle's emotions tracked him like eyes, his edge shapes swaying nervously to-and-fro and bumping against the membrane that contained them. John held his breath.

After deep consideration, Oh flashed three umber squares across his middle and squidged into the nest. Ut went a bit melty around the edges. John, who was fast becoming the expert on Keplerian body language, correctly translated this as relief.

Sherlock read the words off Oh's middle. "'Yes yes yes,'" he said.

"Rather a lot of 'yes,' then. Good thing to say at a wedding. Bodes well."

"Mmm," said Sherlock, as Ut piled into the bed next to his beloved. He seemed mildly distracted about something. Sherlock, not Ut. Ut emanated a single-mindedness of purpose that was wonderful to behold in so blobby a creature.

"What next?" asked John. "When do the other guests arrive?"

"What other guests? We're it."

The idea that nobody had come out to support the prospective bondmates struck John as fundamentally objectionable.

"Right, I know this isn't exactly legal, this thing between the two of them, but that can't have scared away _everyone_."

"It didn't. We're the only ones who know. Ut and Oh thought of the idea, Oh ran it by us, and here they are. Other Keplerians wouldn't have been able to keep it a secret. You and I can. Also, the union is societally unacceptable on a number of levels. It's not just the caste difference."

"What then? Overall body color?" In certain lights, Umber Triangle resembled a tall, wobbly pint of lager, whereas Olive Hexagon was more of a pale ale.

"Of course not. That would be moronic. No, it's the monogamy aspect. It's not at all typical for Keplerians to pair-bond. There's a ceremony for it, but it's old-fashioned and little used, and at this point in time, it's considered kinky. Deviant. It's not well regarded by the population at large."

"Pull the other one," said John.

"I can't pull the other one. I haven't bothered to pull the first."

"So you're saying Keplerians frown on insufficiently casual sex."

"Most of them, yes."

"And that's because …"

"John, what would be the public reaction if you and I were to, I don't know, cuff ourselves together at the wrists and ankles and then go to Tesco's?"

"Depends on which Tesco's it was," said John, reasonably. "Is there one in Camden? How about Soho?"

"Pick the Tesco's you grew up near. The one in Aldershot."

"Right. Well, first there would be general amazement that a posh git like you had heard of Tesco's. Then there would be astonishment that somebody of your body type actually ate."

"And then?"

"Dirty looks," conceded John. "Lots of them. And probably a few comments. People wouldn't understand it, and they don't like what they don't understand. I wouldn't necessarily understand it either."

"So you wouldn't do it. You wouldn't cuff yourself to another man and go to Tesco's."

"I would, actually. Might be a laugh. Either that, or it'd be part of some brilliant plan for flushing out a serial killer. Yeah. I'd do it. If the other bloke were you."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Not everyone shares your sense of adventure. In any case, you understand that that level of togetherness would be viewed by most people as impractical, unseemly, unsettling – possibly even disgusting. Ut and Oh's decision to enter into a permanent bond is similarly outré. That's why it's traditional for the bonding guests to get a bit physical themselves."

"Wait, wait. Hang on. Get physical with whom, exactly?"

"Each other. Keplerian society is fairly collective in nature. A certain amount of mingling among the guests is thought to mitigate the stigma of the central pair's decision to forsake other partners."

"As in …"

"Normally, you and I would be expected to …"

"Shag each other rotten."

"Yes."

"Clearly. I should have seen that coming. We're representing Earth? We have to fuck. It's a wedding? We have to fuck. It's Tuesday? We have to fu—"

"You sound like you don't want to."

"You already know how I feel about this. I'm not going to sleep with you just because a third party says we have to, and I'm not going to fill you with sperm on a ship where everyone has an unhealthy interest in human reproduction. Not to mention a great deal of scientific prowess."

Sherlock shifted on his seat. "I could fill you."

John turned to look at him. At that moment, Ut and Oh began slapping the sides of their jelly bed with their hastily formed tentacles. The ceremony was about to begin.

* * *

"Tell me what they're saying," said John. "Tell me everything."

"Oh, God," said Sherlock. "Whatever for? 'To have and to squish.' 'Until evaporation do us part.' 'Whither thou squidgest, there also shall I squidge.' You know what matrimonial boilerplate is like."

"Would you feel that way if it were us?"

"Of course not."

"And why is that, exactly?"

"Because it would be _us_. Really, John. You walked right into that one."

"Right, then. Take this seriously."

Sherlock shot John a curious look.

"They're starting with each other's names." He nodded at the two Keplerians, who were standing up in their bed bower. "Oh can say Ut's name, because Oh's body contains umber triangles. Ut can't say Oh's name the usual way, because his body doesn't contain any hexagons. As a member of the Triangle caste, his vocabulary is sharply limited by his anatomy."

"Looks like he's found a way around that," said John. Just as Ut could make tentacles out of his jelly, he could also make a raised figure of a hexagon on what, in a human, would be his belly. He did this. Then he and Oh twined their tentacles together. It wasn't sex; it was just togetherness.

"Now come the vows. 'Membrane of my membrane, soup of my soup …'"

"You what?"

"'Soup of my soup,'" repeated Sherlock. "Do keep up."

"Right, it's like 'heart of my heart' or something. Something romantic. Don't say 'soup of my soup.'"

The Keplerians stopped what they were doing and waved one tentacle each in John's direction.

"Do you want me to translate or not?" hissed Sherlock.

"Yes. Right. Sorry. Tell them I'm sorry. Carry on."

Sherlock went back to translating. Unlike participants in a human wedding, the bonding Keplerians spoke at the same time. Ut sometimes used a simpler word where Oh would use a more flowery one, but otherwise, they mirrored each other, their internal shapes tossing and twirling in the visual dance of their language.

"'Membrane of my membrane, soup of my soup  
Sweet is your liquid, pleasing are your shapes.  
You are like the stars, varying always and never.  
Let us change and be constant together.  
I see you in four dimensions.  
I honor your puddle self …'"

"Say again?" whispered John.

"Puddle self. A Keplerian baby starts as a puddle."

"Right. Go on."

"'And your vapor self …'"

"Is that them after death?"

"Yes." Sherlock continued. "'And the firmness in between.  
Let us be who we are.  
Let us join what is already joined,  
My broth to your broth, your shapes to my shapes,  
Two bodies tuned to a single vibration.  
All that I am, I give you:  
My wetness and solidity,  
My being and my possibilities,  
All that is touched by the light and all that is not.  
I make a place inside myself to contain your refulgence.'"

John grinned. _Honestly_, he thought. _No idea that priests officiate at weddings, but he's well up on Keplerian for 'refulgence_.'

Alert to John's merriment, Sherlock cast a reproachful eye upon him. John pursed his lips in a conciliatory way. Placated, Sherlock went on.

"'Take me into yourself, that I may also take you.  
I give myself to you in bonding.'"

"Lovely," said John. He bowed his head in the direction of the happy pair.

"You don't have to bow," said Sherlock. "This isn't grace."

"It sort of is," said John.

* * *

The post-vow part of the ceremony involved drinking. A lot. Ut, who seemed to be in charge of the mango bed, somehow produced a hard, golden sphere from its depths. The sphere, when cracked open, revealed a quantity of liquid. It was light and sweet and colorless, and it smelled like coconut water. The Keplerians and humans sat on the floor, passing the sphere around. The Keplerians drank by inserting delicate tendrils into the sphere, Sherlock sipped gravely, and John just slugged it back.

"'Welcome to London,'" said John. "Oh my God. Hilarious. Tell them that one. Go on, tell them."

_I'm cackling_, he thought. _Am I cackling? Do men cackle? They must do, because I'm a man, and here I am, cackling my manly arse off in the manner of men. _He took a long pull off the sphere.

"Very complicated story, John," said Sherlock. His voice remained serious, but the outer corners of his eyes drew up. "I'm not sure I can do it justice."

"Well, I can," said John, and he proceeded to act it out in full, exactly as he had heard Sherlock tell it. During the performance, both Keplerians chattered excitedly. Ut bounced in place.

"Did they get it?" John asked, once the story was over. "The bit with the American tourist and the taxi? You nicking the cop's ID?" It sounded brilliant. John wished he'd been there.

"Not a word," admitted Sherlock. "But they think you're marvelous."

"I am marvelous." John felt marvelous, too. The Keplerians were also marvelous. Sherlock was most definitely marvelous.

Ut flashed a silver circle across his middle. Then he added a purple cross. They sat side-by-side in the middle of his jelly, pregnant with possibility.

"Not this again," said Sherlock. His pale cheeks were pinking up. "Not tonight," he said, signing. "We've already discussed this."

Oh flashed a warning at Ut, but Ut was undaunted. He edged the cross and circle closer.

"See, that's nice," said John. "That's the way you want to go about things: no ordering. Just asking. Right, mate. I know what you want." He did his cross-going-into-the-circle routine with his fingers. Then he took the finger-cross out of the circle and slowly, deliberately_ licked it_.

There was a stunned silence, and then Ut responded by emitting two new appendages and slapping the floor with them. Oh followed suit. It was the Keplerian equivalent of uproarious applause.

"How do you _do_ that?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"Do what?" said John.

"Make everyone like you."

"I don't know. I don't always. Somebody shot me, you know."

"Yes, but …"

"You don't realize, do you? I'm different when I'm around you. More alive. Stronger. They can sense it, I think. The way that I'm happy when I'm around you."

"I did wonder what you were plastered on. You do realize that was fruit juice just now."

"Yeah, well, I'm plastered on you. Do you think …"

"Yes."

"I haven't asked yet."

"Doesn't matter. I've answered."

And with that, Sherlock lowered his mouth and let John kiss him, wholly, fully, while the rest of the universe melted away around them.

* * *

A/N: Huge thanks to the much cherished **ancientreader** for her thoughts and suggestions on this chapter. They were enormously helpful. Any remaining errors are the result of my own intransigence.

Also, warm thanks to **snogandagrope** for creating an "XO tribute shirt" and going to 221b Con in it. Holy smokes. That took guts. And creativity. And all-around panache.

Finally, thanks to everyone who sent their good wishes when my town was under lockdown due to terrorist attack. I think part of the point of terrorist attack is to say, "We are not connected. We are apart." Your thoughts were a welcome contradiction.


	17. Cyclonic

**Chapter Seventeen: Cyclonic**

Note: Be aware, amiable reader, that this contains sex, drugs, and things that go bang in the night.

* * *

Umber Triangle and his Hexagon mate were shacked up in some kind of towering chrysalis at the far end of John and Sherlock's room. After the reception, they'd repaired to the mango bed, where Ut had used his tentacles to coax the walls of the bed up towards the ceiling. No longer a bed, it was now a shining, translucent pod. It looked like a Japanese lantern. Soft light issued from it, one color blending into another. The gentle, lumbering shapes of the bonded couple moved slowly within, like shadow puppets against a screen.

Bathed in this light, Sherlock lay on his back in the blackcurrant jelly bed. How had he got here? Oh, yes, somebody had toppled him backwards into the divot. No doubt it was the same nefarious interloper who had rid him of his trousers.

"Want," said the suspect. He wasn't difficult to spot, as he was literally on top of Sherlock. "God, Sherlock. Want you."

Sherlock panted. It was hard to think when John was muttering urgent, thrilling nonsense in his ear and pinning him to the bed with his crotch.

"In what way? Can you … _unf_ … be more specific?"

"Want you _now_," clarified John. "Hot in here, isn't it? Let me help you with that shirt." He raised himself up to paw at Sherlock's buttons.

It occurred to Sherlock, as John bared his upper chest to public view, that someone was trying to get a leg over. Figuratively. Literally, as a sidelong glance down the bed confirmed, the leg was already there.

Sherlock raised an incredulous eyebrow.

_Is John trying to _mate_ with me? Roughly four meters away from a brace of Keplerians? _(He thought the appropriate collective noun might be "brace," although on second thought, it was probably "squidge.") _What's become of his vehement refusals? His oft-enumerated inhibitions?_

_Hypothesis A: Despite all previous complaints, he wishes to honor indigenous tradition by having sex at the wedding. _

_Hypothesis B: That wasn't just fruit juice. _

Delicacy did not come naturally to Sherlock, but given how little he knew about sex, it seemed best to broach the subject with caution. "While I'm sure our guests … _mmpf_ … appreciate the seriousness and dedication that you bring to your role as best man … ow! What on earth?"

"Marking you." John had just pulled back one of Sherlock's lapels, found a bit of pale skin, sucked on it, and bit down.

"Gah," said Sherlock. "Whatever for?"

John rummaged around in Sherlock's half-open shirt and found one of his nipples. Sherlock gasped as he ran a casual thumb over it.

"Lets everyone know you're mine. Fends off rivals."

"John." Sherlock was surprised to find his hips undulating of their own accord. _No doubt the result of evolutionary pressures acting upon the — no. Focus. _"There aren't any other humans here. We're six hundred light-years from earth. There's hardly a queue."

There _had_ been recent mutterings from Plum Duff about pairing him off with Clive, the squid creature next door, but that was only if his relationship with John didn't "take." Apparently there were certain similarities in the DNA. Surprising, until you realized how much genetic material human beings shared with, for example, kiwis. _The fruit. The bird. Either. Both._

Sherlock hadn't mentioned Plum Duff's matchmaking ideas to John. John would go berserk.

"Can't be too careful," said John. He sucked on Sherlock's earlobe, then bit.

* * *

From a practical standpoint, Sherlock did not need to be marked. He was not an egg carton of eyeballs (_Six dichromatic, six not. Important to have a control group_) in a fridge habitually cleaned by his landlady before she'd got out of the housekeeping business. Not that he'd ever bothered to mark that.

From a sensory standpoint, Sherlock needed more marking.

John rolled Sherlock over on all fours. Although Sherlock was still wearing a shirt, he was functionally naked, because the shirt covered only the bits that didn't need covering. His upper arms. His back. John had disabled the buttons. Also, he kept rucking up the fabric in order to explore Sherlock's body. He himself was still fully dressed.

It occurred to Sherlock that the wine-dark shirt was now less a piece of clothing than an eye-catching bit of dorsal flair proclaiming, "Get it here." The Savile Row tailoring had been reduced to the status of red pigmentation on the hindquarters of a baboon. Rather than concealing sexual availability, it advertised it.

John reached a hand under and stroked Sherlock's chest. His abdomen. The dark, sparse fur trailing downward. Sherlock felt the individual hairs rising as John's hand passed over him. Gooseflesh. The skin on his arms was also affected, and it hadn't even been touched.

"You're on a hair trigger, mate," said John, inspecting him. "Magnificent."

The bite on Sherlock's left scapula was a hard one. He wondered if he'd end up with a scar. It could serve as an homage to John's healed wound, the one made by the bullet that sent him home. The one that served as the flapping butterfly wing that had ruffled the hair of fate and packed him off to the Keplerian solar system to serve as Sherlock's lover. The thought was eerily romantic.

"Oh," said Sherlock, tossing his head back. "Oh, God." The shoulder bite made the backs of his thighs light up. The slip and slide of silk against the skin added an erotic charge — a frisson of pleasure to go with the slight, tingling pain.

"Like that?"

Sherlock shivered. "The biting, or what you're doing to my nipples?"

"Either one," said John. He had reached under Sherlock and was helping himself to one of the appurtenances in question. Without intending to, Sherlock rubbed himself against John's hand.

"None of this should work," Sherlock pointed out. "All right, perhaps the thing with the nipples should work. Parallel embryonic development across the sexes, nursing, oxytocin, bonding, pleasure. But what about the biting? That definitely shouldn't work. If we all wanted to get bitten, we'd have given ourselves up to marauding tigers long ago. Where's the evolutionary advantage in that?"

"Don't know. Helps you hold your partner in place? If I have the skin of your neck in my teeth, you're less likely to jerk away. Here. Try it."

_Ungh_. This new bite was gentle but firm. He was right: under the circumstances, Sherlock really didn't want to jerk his neck. Thrashing might cause abrasion. It was better to just hold still and let John do what he wanted.

"Fast learner." Sherlock hadn't realized a chuckle could sound so dark. Given his line of work, that was saying something.

He felt a light touch on the underside of his thickening cock. It wasn't a stroke or a pumping motion. It wasn't even a caress. It was merely a touch. If it had been a kiss, it would have been a chaste peck on the lips. Nothing elaborate. He got the feeling that John was touching him there just to show that he could. He arched his body, seeking more sensation, but John withdrew his hand. It was maddening. He needed more contact.

"What do you want?" asked Sherlock. "Do you want me to blow you?"

"No."

"Hand job?" He'd picked up quite a bit of vocabulary on John's watch.

"No."

"What then?"

"Wait here, and I'll show you."

* * *

John was gone for a few moments. Still face down in the jelly, Sherlock could hear him knocking something over by the window. When he returned, he placed something on the floor. Then he seized Sherlock by the waist, pulled him backwards, and began rearranging him.

"Ungh. What are you doing back there?"

"I think you know what I'm doing."

The resulting position wasn't modest, but it was surprisingly comfortable. Sherlock's feet were on the floor, his groin was supported by the cushiony rim of the sleep nest, and his face was pressed against the bed. He couldn't help but notice that this posture offered John considerable access to his arse.

Sherlock's pale thighs were still pressed together. Rather than forcing them apart, John ran a finger down the long line where they met. It tickled. Reflexively, Sherlock spread his legs, and John got between them.

"Quite the trick," said Sherlock.

There. If one ignored the breathlessness with which it was delivered, the comment provided a certain amount of coolness and distance. It was better than saying what he was actually thinking, which was that there was a very real danger that one day he would spread his legs for John and forget how to close them. He'd end up stuck that way, like an open pair of scissors.

"Thank you," said John. He caressed Sherlock's arse, fingers dipping into the crease.

"I …"

John ran his thumb down the cleft. When he got to where he wanted to go, he stopped. A full body tremor ran through Sherlock.

"John, I don't think you're appreciating just how difficult it is for me to think, and therefore _talk_, with your thumb there." He was completely hard now.

"Then don't think," said John, all logic. "Feel." He was making small, tight circles.

"I'm doing that but I think you should know …"

John's thumb felt suspiciously cool and slick.

"Is that my plant?" Sherlock demanded.

"It grows like mad. It'll make more. Plus, I know perfectly well this one isn't toxic. You've been putting it on scrapes for weeks. Mildly antiseptic, right?"

"_Not the point_. I was studying that."

"Keep studying." John stroked Sherlock's tightly furled hole. Not pushing in. Just rubbing.

While Sherlock was no longer in a position to examine this particular plant's medicinal properties, he was admirably placed to evaluate its lubricity.

_Findings: Good. _

John pressed, still not entering. Just testing the waters.

Sherlock crossed out "Good" on his mental whiteboard and scribbled, "Phenomenal." There were other rubrics for measuring a reduction in friction, but he was damned if he could remember any of them.

"John. If you're planning to divest me of the last shreds of my virginity, there's something I need to point out."

"Go ahead."

"I'm a thrill-seeker with limited impulse control and a drug habit. You do _not_ want to put me in the position of being the one who has to practice restraint. You really don't."

"Who says…"

"You do. You've said from day one you don't want to have sex where our captors can see, you don't want your DNA floating around unsupervised on a reproductive research vessel, and you don't want to fuck me while 'jacked up on who knows what.' Yet here you are, paving the way for anal sex. Don't you see? The fruit juice, John. I think there was something wrong with the fruit juice."

There was a pause. Sherlock turned his neck, but the angle was such that he couldn't really see John's face. It was possible that the man had retained none of that speech but the word "fuck." Or "me." Or both, in that precise order.

"Really," said John. "I've got you face down on the bed with my thumb _this_ far away from being up your arse, and you're concerned about taking advantage of me?"

"Yes. As your friend, I…"

John rolled Sherlock over on his side and lay down next to him. His expression was gentle.

"I don't know who diagnosed you as a sociopath, but they must have got their diploma from an online mill based in Tijuana. You're actually concerned about this."

"You're _drunk_. You must be. You told me not three hours ago that you didn't want to fill me with sperm. My stomach, maybe – gastric acids would render your DNA irrecoverable – but not my arse. If you sober up and find out I let you do this, you'll be furious. This is a perfect storm of everything you don't want. Sex influenced by outsiders, sex with an audience, sex without a reasonable means of sperm recovery, sex while intoxica—"

"First of all, let's discuss the perfect storm of everything I _do_ want, because it's you. God, Sherlock. You're brilliant, you're beautiful, you're raving mad, and I've been cooped up with you for weeks. I don't know how much longer I can hold out. Second, I don't think our guests are very interested in us right now." John tossed his head in direction of the small, enclosed guest suite that Ut had created for his bondmate. "They seem otherwise engrossed, if you ask me. Third, Keplerians don't lie. If they told you it was fruit juice, why would it be something else?"

"Er. Artifact of translation."

John cocked his head at this. "You mean a mistake."

"It's one explanation. Perhaps the Keplerian term 'fruit juice' also includes fermented products. Technically, grappa is fruit juice. People get utterly wrecked on that." By people, of course, he meant his normally prim brother. Visions of Mycroft performing some kind of hideous, zombiesque dance at Mummy's third wedding – the one at the Palazzo Cavalli – lurched through Sherlock's head.

"It didn't taste fermented."

"Well, then. Perhaps the fruit contains a compound that lowers inhibitions."

"Right. In mammals. From the planet Earth. Who just happened to have developed in such a way that their mental processes can be hijacked by something from a Keplerian lemonade stand. What are the chances of that?"

"Ninety-seven percent. And three-fifths."

"I suppose you're also drunk?"

"You suppose wrong. I'm sober. Distracted, physically aroused – almost painfully so – but sober. John. My career as an addict has not been distinguished by choosiness. Do you have any idea how large a dose I have to take of virtually anything before I feel it?"

John wrapped an arm around Sherlock and pulled him close. A light breath caressed the side of Sherlock's throat.

"Do you feel this?"

Sherlock shivered. "Yes."

John pressed a lingering kiss just to the left of Sherlock's Adam's apple, where the mole was.

"How about that?"

Sherlock moaned. John's mouth, in contrast to the pillowy lips of his partner, was firm and compact and sure. It had no anatomical give whatsoever, and when it was on you, you knew you were dealing with a soldier. _An officer_, amended Sherlock. For a moment, he let his head drop back, welcoming the onslaught. Then he tensed up again. He stared at his lover point-blank.

"What else? Clearly, you can make me feel a number of things. Name them."

John twisted one of Sherlock's ringlets around his finger. When he removed his hand, the hair stayed in place, tightly curled, a replica of the finger in question. Sherlock wondered what other parts of his body might bend themselves to John's anatomy. If the man fucked him, there was the very real possibility that he'd remain internally John-shaped forever more.

"You want a list? I don't know. I want to find out. God, Sherlock. You have no idea how much I want to make you feel good, take care of you. Let me give you that."

Sherlock gave a slight nod.

John gave him a hopeful, serious look. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes."

* * *

"Breathe. That's it. Breathe."

Sherlock lay sprawled face-up on the jelly bed, arms to the four compass points, his lover between his thighs. John's middle finger was inside him, gently stretching where no finger had stretched before.

"This is what it would feel like if I were prepping you," said John.

"Prepping."

_Was that an echo? Damn it._ Sherlock's mental iPod was stuck on repeat. He interpreted this as an indicator that his cerebral blood supply had done a runner, hopped the blood-brain barrier, and headed for points south. He was flushed and panting.

"Getting you ready. If, for example, you wanted to make love."

_Oh. Oh._ Did people actually say that? They must, because John just had. He'd said it deliberately too, looking right at him, as if daring Sherlock to say something.

Sherlock said something.

"John. You must know that love is a form of energy, which means that in a closed system – you inside me, no others interfering – it can neither be created nor destroyed. The idea that you can make more of it is therefore scientifically suspect. First Law of Thermodyn—"

It was extraordinary how many syllables "thermodynamics" had when the speaker was gasping with a finger in him. Sherlock lost count.

John smiled. "Form of energy. You absolute lunatic. How do you reckon?"

"Not solid, not liquid, not gas. Starts with neurochemical impulses. Electric."

John ran his free hand curiously over Sherlock's body. "Where do you feel it?"

"Here." Sherlock grabbed the hand and held it against his chest. "No, not the celiac plexus. Higher." It was a peculiar sensation. It was as if something were surging out of him at sternum height. Whatever it was, it was making a beeline for John.

* * *

"You're doing really well," said John. "Relax. Let your body get used to it. I'll just rest until you're ready for more."

"More?" asked Sherlock. His voice combined enthusiasm with disbelief.

"More movement. More fingers. Or, if you like, more rest. Whatever you want."

Sherlock voted for movement. John rubbed gently at one of his inner walls, the one closest to his navel. He seemed to be looking for something. Sherlock was about to ask him if he'd misplaced his keys, when a jolt of pleasure shot through him. He cried out.

"Nice," said John. He sounded genuinely admiring, as if writhing Sherlock were every bit as incredible as Sherlock making deductions about the love triangle between the kelp-creatures down the hall.

Sherlock wondered if he was going to come like this.

"Not sure," said John. "It would be amazing if you did. Most men can't, is what I hear. They may like it well enough, but it's hard for them to get off unless someone's touching their cocks. Most men."

"And your past lovers?" It was galling to think of John in bed with anyone else, but Sherlock wanted to know where he stood. Or lay, as the case may be.

"I've only been with the one bloke before you. He didn't let me anywhere near his arse. Said I'd do more good up front."

"He was an idiot," said Sherlock. "Do that again."

"Of course, you're not most men," said John. He stroked as he talked. Once he had determined the spot that made Sherlock arch and buck the hardest, he didn't stray from it. He courted it. "You're physically … sensitive. See things other people don't see. Hear things other people don't hear. All of your senses are a bit amped up. No wonder you're so responsive in bed."

John punctuated this observation with a particularly maddening swipe of his finger. Sherlock thrashed so hard he nearly dislodged it.

"Ungh," he said. "Is it supposed to feel like this?"

"I don't know. How does it feel?"

"Like I'm having an orgasm. A heart attack. Possibly a baby. Keep going." It was a strange sensation, somewhere between irresistible ache and blistering relief. Sherlock wanted to try it on John to see if there were similar results. He would, too, just as soon as he could sit up.

"It's supposed to feel like that for some people – just one continuous orgasm. Lucky bastard." John continued rubbing. He'd already figured out where Sherlock wanted to be touched, and now he was working out _how_. A variation in rhythm made Sherlock gasp.

"Has anyone done this to you?" he managed.

"Fingerfucked me on a jelly bed?" asked John. "No. There were opportunities in med school, but no."

"Could you do that to me with your penis? Hypothetically speaking."

"Er, not exactly like this. My cock's a lot larger than my finger. The place I'm touching is only a couple of inches in. I'd have to fuck you pretty shallowly to hit it."

Sherlock rocked his hips experimentally. "What happens if you press harder?"

John tried it. A bit of pearly fluid trickled out of Sherlock's cock and onto his stomach. Sherlock tossed his head from side to side and moaned.

"Sorry, should have warned you. Prostate's full of semen. Pressing on it is like pressing on one end of a water balloon. The fluid's got to go somewhere. Doesn't mean you're actually coming. Yet."

Sherlock groaned. "Give me more two more fingers. No, three."

"Two," said John, firmly, and he worked more of his hand into Sherlock.

"_Unf_. The spangly bits. You know, in the botanical material you've so … _ahh_ … generously stuffed me with? I can … _ungh_ … feel them."

"What do you mean, you can feel them?"

"They fizz." The sensation was not unlike the one encountered when resting one's cheek on a glass of champagne, only somewhere much more intimate. Sherlock could feel the tiny spangles popping inside him.

"Sorry. Does it hurt?"

John went to remove his hand. Sherlock grabbed him by the wrist and held it in place.

"No. Definitely not. Can you … oh. _Oh_."

"That's it. Show me what you need. Move for me, love."

"John. John, please. I'm going to …"

And he did, without so much as a hand on his erection. The only hand was _in_, not on. He hadn't known he could come like that, but his body knew, and it steered him directly into the path of the spiraling, tempestuous pleasure. He gave himself up to it, and it took hold of him and bore him up like a cyclone.

Then there was an explosion from the far corner of the room, and everything went black.

* * *

A/N: OK, that was longer than I meant it to be, but it was time for a sex scene. And I hate to cut a sex scene in two. Really. That's just bad manners. I'll let you know when I find the Emily Post reference for this.


	18. Chrysalis

**Chapter Eighteen: Chrysalis**

Rated M for sentient lava lamps going at it. Welcome to the weekend!

* * *

The reception for the bonding ceremony had just concluded. Seated next to his officer love, Ut urged the walls of the mating nest up towards the ceiling. These inclined towards each other, then shut above their heads, like the petals of a Cybellian tulip blooming in reverse.

It was cozy in the nest. The bed was soft and smooth, and the interior of the pod was lit with the glow emanating from two amorous Keplerians. Ut let the golden-olive light from his partner wash over him. Soon they would be joined. Ut had never wanted anything more.

Oh gazed fondly at Ut, then began to whisper sweet nothings. These began with the appearance of an umber triangle, glowing and perfect, in his soldierly middle. A stout olive hexagon sidled up to it. The triangle representing Ut bobbed up and down twice, then made a home for itself inside its hexagonal companion. Although the individual sides of the two shapes remained independent, three of their points overlapped perfectly. It was a metaphor for how they were: separate but connected. Oh spun the combined shapes around in a dance of giddy tenderness.

"My bondling," he said. "My only. My own."

"Your speech is beautiful," said Ut. He inclined his crowning pentagon towards his mate. "I cannot imagine being able to speak as you do."

"Your speech is a marvel. So compact. So passionate. With your small print, you can say many things at once. I can say only a few things, and then I have to refresh the screen."

Ut flashed five grateful circles. Still, he could not help but ponder what a boon it would have been to be able to speak his intended's name – fully, properly – during the ceremony. Of course, this thought was immediately broadcast across his midriff.

"You spoke it," said Oh, firmly. He reached out an appendage and stroked Ut with it. "You spoke it as no one has ever spoken it before. You decorated your body with it. My commonplace name – you wore it like an ornament."

Despite his more extensive vocabulary, Oh appeared to have run out of words. He wrapped his appendage around Ut and drew him closer. Ut's peripheral shapes hurried towards him as the light in a plasma globe rushes towards the one who touches it. Oh's did the same.

"You would not wish me to change?" asked Ut. It was a bit late to ask, but he wanted to know.

"You are magnificent as you are. If you wish to have hexagons as part of your vocabulary, I wish that for you too. Perhaps some of mine will enter you as we join. If so, my shapes will be fortunate to find a home in you. If not, it will not matter. We will be one, regardless of what our shapes say."

"You are romantic for one of your occupation," teased Ut. Lacking internal hexagons, he could not say "soldier."

"It is your influence. I am picking things up from you. What about you? Do you wish for me to change?"

"What? No."

"There is an operation," said Oh, hesitantly. "Available on one of the moons of Beroth. A Hexagon can get his crowning polygon filed down. I could become a Triangle, like you. You would not have to worry about…"

"Never. If it is not something you wish, how would I wish it? I have fallen for you as you are."

There was a noise from outside the pod. Ut touched an appendage to the side of the pod to see what Silver Circle and Plum Cross were up to. The papery skin of the pod turned clear where he touched it. Ut peered outside, then turned purple about the middle and hastily dropped his appendage. The clear patch returned to its former translucence.

"Someone has a fetish," teased Oh, checking out Ut's blushing belly.

"It is a medical condition," replied Ut, defensively.

"There now," said Oh. "I did not mean to make you feel bashful. I am thankful for your difference. Had the aliens' canoodling not caused you to dissolve into a puddle on the day that we met, I would never have noticed you. I was not used to focusing on so small and delicate a font."

"Hmpf," said Ut. "I noticed _you_."

"Me? Not the priest, or the scientists? It is the nature of a Watcher to notice everything, is it not?"

"Only you. It was kind of you to squidge me back to my quarters afterwards."

"It was a way of being assured of your company. How are our four-appendaged friends, by the way?"

"They are up to five appendages each," confided Ut. He had often observed that the two aliens changed shape under each other's influence. Things that did not look like appendages while flaccid ended up looking very appendage-y indeed when they were sizing each other up for mating.

"It is sad for them," said the soldier. "They do not have access to multiple partners. They have no choice but to be a couple."

"We have no choice but to be a couple either," said Ut. "No one else interests me. There is only you."

"Yes, but for us, couplehood is the best outcome. It is what we want. There are other Keplerians on board, but you are the one I long for. The aliens are the only members of their kind on the ship."

"I do not believe it would matter if they were among their own. They would still look to each other. They may not have chosen these circumstances, but they are bondmates, like us. They are meant to be together."

Now it was Oh's turn to touch a tentacle to the inside of the pod and peep outside. After a moment, he dropped his tentacle. "I cannot figure them out," he said.

"What confuses you?"

"The pale one. He glows. He glows all the time. His appendages, his membrane, the spheres he uses to see with. Everything glows. You would think that so much mating would satisfy him and his light would subside, but it does not."

"Tell me more of mating," said Ut, coyly.

"I will do more than tell you. Bondling, with your permission, I will show you."

"Permission granted, cherished one."

* * *

The sex was slow and sweet and, thanks to a peculiarity of Keplerian anatomy, quite literally delicious.

It began not with penetration, but with gentle pressure. Oh edged closer to Ut in the mating nest, then pressed his body against him. Ut could taste him. He tasted like liquor distilled from stars.

"Is this all right?"

"It is more than all right," said Ut. "It is pleasing." He shivered. The resulting ripples caused a responding wave in Oh's jelly at the place where their membranes touched.

"Ah," said Oh. "I can feel your vibration. It is slow. Sultry. Luxurious."

"I have never thought of it that way. It is practical. Good for lulling puddle-children to sleep."

"I do not feel lulled," said Oh. "Here. Feel me."

Ut focused on Oh's internal vibration.

"It stirs me," said Ut. "It reminds me of you galloping." He remembered how his partner had looked on that first day, the day that the aliens had mated with tongues. He was strong and fast, and his golden body was sleek and glossy and radiant with health.

They took turns tuning their bodies to the other's vibrations – one slow and longing, and the other quick and desirous. Eventually they were switching back and forth with such fluidity and verve that the vibrations became music. It was a symphony best discerned by touch.

"Ah!" said Ut.

"What? Does it tickle?"

"No."

"It does not tickle me either," said Oh. "Sweet one…"

Ut had made up his mind. "I am ready," he said. "Come into me."

Oh seemed suddenly shy and hesitant. Some of his peripheral shapes went behind his back, as though hiding. This was to no avail, as he was completely transparent.

"What is it?" asked Ut. "Do you not want this?"

"It would please me," managed Oh, "if you would come into me first."

"Merciful Meg," said Ut. This was short for Megagon. The full name of the Keplerian über-deity could not be spoken outright. Nobody had a linguistic polygon up to the task. "Yes, my shining one. Yes."

Ut fashioned a new appendage for himself. Normal, everyday appendages tended to be fashioned from side material, but this one was special. It emanated from his core, from the place where his thoughts and words and dreams arose. Let others enter their partners with the same appendages they used for cleaning the floor; he would not. This was not a quick grope while tidying up the hall. This was bonding for life.

"Here," said Oh. "Do it here." He made a divot in the center of his body, at the place closest to his own linguistic screen. It was the heart of him.

Ut entered him. Finding himself taken, Oh froze, then cried out in pleasure. The sight of his partner in rapture caused an indentation to form under Ut's central appendage. Oh immediately filled it with a new appendage of his own. They were now inside each other.

"Bondling," gasped Oh. "Do you like it?"

As a Keplerian, Ut could speak only the truth. "Nothing has ever felt so good. Ah! What is that?"

"Do not worry. It is right." Oh seemed to be having trouble talking. Many of his inner polygons had fled for the periphery, where they tumbled in an agony of delight. "The membrane. It breaks down."

"Yours or mine?"

"Both. We are joining."

Ut looked at the points where their bodies met. He could see a thin stream of his liquid flowing into Oh's body. It was lighter in color and more luminous. Meanwhile, Oh's darker, richer liquid flowed into him like syrup.

Ut had never seen anything like this before, because he'd never seen members of separate castes having sex. All Triangles were the same color, and when they engaged in relations with each other, the liquid they exchanged was identical. It didn't stand out. In contrast, sex between a Triangle and a Hexagon was about as subtle as a dish of Fudge Ripple. It left a mark.

"Ah!" gasped Ut. He had not thought it would be possible to be more turned on, but seeing his lover's issue inside him did the trick. The fact that he could also taste it was a glorious lagniappe.

"Umber Triangle," said Oh. It was all he was capable of saying for the moment. The relevant polygon appeared at the center of his being and stayed there. His body was slick and trembling. It was likely that he was close to the final melding, the one that would involve an exchange of shapes.

In the midst of this embrace, Ut had an epiphany.

Perhaps there was a way to say "Olive Hexagon" without possessing the relevant shape. He had managed it before by making a sort of hexagonal appendage, but that had been something on the surface. This would be at the core of him, where it should be.

Nervously, he summoned six olive triangles into his middle, then arranged them in a ring so that their apices were pointing outwards. Circumscribed in the middle was a blank space in the form of a hexagon. The emptiness at the center was like an ache.

On the outside of his body, his emotions twirled and beckoned. They bumped against his membrane, begging, welcoming, asking for completion.

"Ah!" said Olive Hexagon.

And then Ut felt it: his lover's shapes bubbling into him. At first, they were tiny. This was natural and healthy. Under normal conditions, only the smallest shapes were transmissible during sex, so as to protect the recipient from rupture. However, once they were successfully implanted inside a partner, they grew. This is what they were doing inside Ut now.

Oh seemed to be undergoing the same transformation. Tiny polygons were leaving Ut and entering him. The two of them clung to each other in ecstasy.

"What have you planted inside me?" gasped Oh, once he could talk. His emotions were doing un-soldierly undulations around the periphery of his body. "I feel your – ah! – your shapes moving in me, but I cannot tell what they are." He could have simply looked, but this would have required pulling back slightly from Ut, something he was loath to do.

Ut focused on a shape just as it blossomed into its larger form, spreading out like a firework.

"A square, my sweet one," he said. "Umber in color. Several plum triangles. Three more triangles – olive. What have you given me?"

It would not do to hope for too much. Whatever Oh gave him would be welcome.

"A square," said Oh. "It is olive. A lot of squares, actually. All the colors. Ah! I had not expected that."

"Yes?" Ut's peripheral shapes twirled eagerly.

"It is a pentagon. A plum one."

"Ah," said Ut.

"It is perhaps not what you wanted," said Oh.

"Well. I can talk about scientists now. I can scarcely believe it." Ut tried not to feel disappointed.

"We can try again," said Oh. The two of them were still locked in an embrace. "Sometimes an additional mating leads to other shapes."

"That is true," said Ut. They both knew this rarely happened, but it wasn't out of the question. "Pay no attention to me, cherished one. I am being foolish."

"You are not foolish."

"I am. You are the sun and both the moons to me, and I had hoped to become able to say your name through bonding. It is a beautiful name. I would have been honored to have it inside me. It makes me happy when you call me, and it would have pleased me to give you that same happiness. But it is not necessary."

"No. It is not necessary," Oh agreed. "It … oh."

"What?"

"There," said Oh. "There it is. I see it."

Umber Triangle pulled back a bit and saw it too. A small hexagon in his midriff.

"Meg and all her Myriagons," said Ut.

The tiny hexagon swam to the center of Ut's communicative screen, where the hexagonal space circumscribed by triangles was.

"Ah!"

"It is getting bigger."

"It certainly is," managed Ut. He was talking in subtitles so as not to disturb the drama unfolding in the center of his screen.

"It is olive."

"It feels olive," said Ut. The hexagon was growing rapidly now, spreading out in the space available to it.

"Umber Triangle. My only. My own."

"Olive Hexagon," cried Ut. "Olive Hexagon. Ah! Oh! I can say it!"

Words were flooding into him. He could say a thousand things he'd never been able to say before. He could think things he'd never dreamed of.

"My soldier. My officer. My bondling. My love."

There was pleasure, more pleasure than he'd ever known. He was racked with it. It circled out of him and into his partner, then back again in a loop of ecstasy and desire. They were two. They were one. They were singular. They were binary. They were bound together in quivering and gelatinous love.

Then light shot out of the center of Ut's body, and the attendant shockwave tore the chrysalis in two.

* * *

A/N: A happy early birthday to my friend **afrogeekgoddess**, extraordinary poet and evolved soul.

Also, thanks to dear **KeeblerMC** for catching a typo. And to **ancientreader** and **meganbobness** for inspiration and general prodding.


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